


Meet Your Mate

by NatatBlue



Series: Reality Check Universe [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Dom/sub, Light BDSM, M/M, Polyamory, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 82,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatatBlue/pseuds/NatatBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the first novel in the Reality Check Series, an ongoing D/s adventure in a slight alternative universe. A young college boy and a professor, both lonely and unsuccessful at finding romantic partners, participate in a unique reality show. This series follows their adventures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

**Meet Your Mate**

**Chapter 1**

 

Tilden Blake climbed the two flights of stairs from his office to the classroom. It was still warm and bright for October, a classic Indian summer day. Out on the lawn below, he could see a game of Ultimate Frisbee, and a few brave souls in various states of undress sprawled out on the grass, catching the last of the New England sun. 

Tilden walked into the classroom, carrying the papers from the first exam. As always the classroom was stratified by academic success; near the windows sat the students who were struggling, and opposite the windows sat the students who were excelling. The division was so absolute that Tilden had sorted the exams by room section. He passed out the papers and gave his usual early in the year pep talk for first year Russian. The four young men sitting under the window and laughing at some private joke had performed dismally. Tilden had written a note in both Russian and English across their test papers requesting they attend office hours, not that he thought it would help. At least two of the clowns, he didn’t think had mastered the alphabet.

Tilden returned to the front of the class and began expounding on the newest grammar topic. Twice his example sentences were interrupted by snickers from the back of the room, and Tilden saw a small object disappear into a student’s pocket. Oh, God, what do they have now? he thought as he strode across the classroom, never breaking eye contact with his four hooligans. Was he teaching in college or in kindergarten?  Tilden stood over their desks and held out his hand. He asked for the object in Russian. Luke Griffith, their apparent spokesman, met his question with feigned innocence and non-comprehension, his blue eyes wide and his blond curls framing his face like a cherub.

Finally in exasperation, Tilden repeated the command in English. “Give it to me.” Tilden hated breaking out of the target language, and even an early first year student should be able to handle a four word sentence. Maybe Luke didn’t understand; he’d scored only 38 out of 100 points. The worst score that Tilden could remember, and half the points were gifts.

Luke smirked and handed the professor a blue Matchbox car. Tilden was sure that he was enjoying forcing the teacher back into English. One year a group of students had an informal contest with one point awarded for every English sentence. The loser each week bought the beer Friday night. Tilden suspected Luke and his friends had come up with a similar scheme

Tilden stared at the car, a toy in a college classroom. He remembered his first year Russian teacher, a survivor of the battle of Stalingrad. Mad Vlad everybody called him behind his back; of course to his face, he was always properly addressed as Vladimir Fyodorovich. Mad Vlad would have grabbed young Luke by his shirt collar and shaken him until his teeth rattled while screaming colorful Russian phrases that were only appropriate on the battlefield between war weary comrades. Tilden had wiped spit off himself a few times when he’d confused the endings of the genitive case. Vlad’s face had been millimeters from Tilden’s and as purple as the famous Ukrainian borsch. 

Tilden watched the four miscreants still snickering behind their hands and elbowing each other; a thorough tongue lashing probably wouldn’t even faze them. In fact, Tilden thought despairingly, they’d probably think it was funny. Staring at the boys, Tilden blew out a breath through his teeth and pointed to Luke. He could at least move them and prevent the distraction for the students who weren’t going to drop out.

“Luka, come sit up front. The rest of you find seats away from each other.”

Luke smiled to the class and made a production of shifting seats. Tilden tried hard to engage the boys for the remainder of the class. It was probably a lost cause; he expected four drop slips by the deadline on Friday. In his mind, Tilden could already hear the department head berating him for the number of late withdraws and the poor class size.

Tilden spent the rest of the class trying to explain the intricacies of in versus at and the three choices of prepositions that could fill this role. As usual about half the class mastered the concept, and the remaining either looked blankly at him or made silly jokes. As the clock moved toward ten till the hour, the class began to grow restless, and Tilden dismissed them, shaking his head sadly as the worst students made toward the door without requesting office hours or even making eye contact.

“Luka, I need to talk to you. Do you have a class next period?”

“No.”

“Did you understand anything I said in class today?” Tilden leaned against the chalkboard and stared hard at Luke.

To Tilden’s surprise, Luke dropped his eyes and blushed, his cheeks turning a rose pink. “I’m not very good at this,” Luke muttered.

“It’s not a matter of being good or bad; it’s a matter of studying. You need to study every day, and you’re not. Russian is cumulative; you can’t cram right before the exam. Your grade reflects exactly the amount of work you’re doing, which appears to be none.”

“Are you always such a hard ass?” Luke asked, grinning with a charm that Tilden suspected usually bent people to his will.

Tilden glared hard at the student, still trying to process the contrast between Luke’s flippant comment and his seconds earlier embarrassment. “Is that all you have to say for yourself, young man?”

Luke blushed again and shifted in his chair.

“So, you don’t have anything to say. Do you have a withdraw form that I need to sign?”

Luke looked up, his blue eyes wide and pitiful.

“That look won’t work with me,” Tilden said softly. He was surprised to see Luke’s eyes fill with tears.

Luke looked down and tried surreptitiously to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. His fingers twisted the wire on his notebook, unthreading the pages from the coiled ring.

Tilden, seeing the genuine discomfort in Luke’s expression, moved to sit on the desk and rested his chin in his hand, still watching Luke, but with more curiosity than anger. “It’s not the end of the world to drop Russian, and a withdraw will be a lot easier on your grade point average than an F. Bring the paperwork in tomorrow, and I’ll sign it without any hassle.”

Luke continued to sit, playing with the edge of his notebook.

“Go on now,” Tilden said, stuffing his papers into his satchel.

“I can’t withdraw,” Luke said softly, more to his notebook than to his instructor.

“Why not? Do you have a silly bet with your friends? They’re in the same boat as you, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I’ve already dropped biology, and I won’t have enough credits,” Luke said with quiet pain in his voice.

Tilden looked at Luke; he seemed genuinely upset, no longer the confident college boy drinking and partying his way through his first year. “You can always catch up on credits in the summer.” Tilden leaned on the chair next to his student, still watching Luke intently.

“It’s not that...” Luke trailed off and started to get up. “I’ll bring the drop form tomorrow.”

“Sit down.” Tilden’s voice snapped through the empty classroom. 

Luke sat down reflexively, dropping his book bag with a clatter.

“The offer of a signed withdraw form without a hassle is off the table. Now, you tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t drop this class.”

“Why not?”

Luke squirmed in his seat, staring at the desktop.

“Why not?” Tilden asked again, letting a determined sharpness creep into his voice.

Luke grabbed his backpack and headed for the door.

“You step out of this room, young man, and I’ll fail you for the semester.”

“You can’t. We’re still in the withdraw period.”

“Only with permission of the professor, and I’m not inclined to give that right now.”

“Fine, I’ll fail and go to community college just like my dad wants,” Luke shouted. 

Tilden watched a range of expressions cross Luke’s face: shock, anger, fear, and finally defeat as Luke walked back to the chair and slumped over the desk. “Try to explain things more clearly, please.”

“I can’t drop this class, and I can’t fail.” Luke buried his head in his arms and scuffed the floor with his shoe.

Tilden watched silently. This boy who had spent an entire month flagrantly failing was crying. There was some piece missing to this puzzle.

“Dad won’t pay for next semester if I drop another class or my G.P.A. drops below a C,” Luke said, his face still buried in his arms.

Tilden stroked his chin and, as much to himself as Luke, said, “I probably shouldn’t, but I’ll pass you in this class if you do all the work from now on and redo all the earlier work.” Tilden stood, grabbed a box of tissues, and set it on Luke’s desk. “Now dry your eyes, and open your book to the first chapter.”

“I wasn’t crying; I have allergies.”

Tilden snorted and smiled. “You’re not the first man reduced to tears by Russian grammar. No more stalling, we have only twenty minutes, and we’re going to spend it learning what you should have learned a month ago.”

Tilden drilled the simplest three or four word phrases until Luke was word perfect. “Very good, you can actually learn when your fellow hooligans aren’t present. Meet me in my office one half hour before class tomorrow.”

Luke made a face. “I’m not a morning person.”

“This extra study time is for you, not me. You will do it at my convenience, or we won’t do it at all, and you can fail.”

Luke had the good grace to look sheepish. “Sorry, I’ll be there.”

“Good, go to bed before the wee hours, and it won’t seem that early. If you have a class in the next hour, you need to run.”

“It’s just intro to European history. It’s boring.”

“With Professor Brown?”

“Yes.”

“Hurry, he doesn’t like students to be late.”

 

****

 

Luke trotted down the stairs, his backpack banging against his shoulder. As he pushed open the outer door, a Frisbee floated toward him. He casually caught it and flipped it back to a student who was jumping up and down and waving her arms on the quad.

“So did you survive Professor Blake?” Mike asked, slipping his arm around Luke’s waist.  “You done with Russian for the year?”

“No, I’m going to stick it out. Get off me now. I’m going to be late for history.”

“So when did you become the teacher’s pet? College students don’t go to class in fine weather.”

“Come on. I need to go.”

“Why, so you can listen to him blather about Martin Luther and the Thirty Years’ War? Let’s go fishing.” Mike snatched the backpack off Luke’s shoulders and took off running across the quad, hurdling the sunbathers on their brightly colored towels.

Luke caught Mike as he dodged around the fountain, which generations of students had nicknamed the Goddess of Learning, a large, buxom woman holding a scroll, looking reverently at it, with her other arm outstretched to the sky. Around the basin was an inscription in Greek that few students could read since the downfall of the classical curriculum. Luke reached for his backpack, but Mike grabbed his wrist and pulled them both into the fountain.

“You ass,” Luke spluttered. “You’re ruining my books.”

“It’s not like you use them anyway,” Mike teased, staying just out of reach, his wet T-shirt hugging his chest and showing off his gold nipple rings.

They circled the fountain again, splashing water against the colorful mosaic. Luke reached for Mike a couple of times, his fingers just slipping through Mike’s crew cut hair and over the dangling earrings.

“Gentlemen, get out of the fountain.”

Luke and Mike turned to see a formidable woman with iron gray hair glaring at them, her hands on her hips. She was wearing a red pantsuit and carrying a leather briefcase. Her lips were pressed together in a firm line, and her smoke colored eyes never wavered. Luke stepped out of the fountain, his feet squishing in his sneakers.

“Whatever possessed you two to go swimming in the fountain?”

“We were just having a bit of fun,” Mike said, smiling gamely. “Early spring fever.”

“This college has two perfectly good swimming pools. Use them next time.” She nodded crisply and walked off.

“We dodged a bullet there,” Mike said, laughing. 

“How?” Luke asked, the red in his cheeks just starting to fade toward his normal color.

“That was the dean of students, Nancy Groat. She could’ve given us a formal warning.” Mike shrugged and bent down to wring the water out of his jeans.

“I don’t think we totally dodged that bullet,” Luke said, looking over Mike’s shoulder to the tall figure leaning against the tree. Except for the stern expression, the man looked like an advertisement for an outdoor catalog, his lean frame dressed immaculately in khakis and a blue oxford shirt, which accented the near violet color of his eyes, His brown, windblown hair was just long enough for a few stray bangs to brush his eyebrows.

“Luka, didn’t you tell me you had class?”

“Yes, Professor Blake.”

“And what about you, Misha?”

“Uh, I’m supposed to be in the same place.”

“Come with me. I’ll walk you across to the history building to prevent any additional accidents in the fountains.”

Tilden hustled the two boys across the grass and into the history and government building before they had a chance to formulate an escape plan.

Luke and Mike could hear the deep bass of Milton Brown’s voice as they approached the classroom. He was expounding on the formation of the German state and the Protestant Reformation’s influence on the state.

“Milton, I found two of your students lost and wet. I was kind enough to escort them the rest of the way.”

The entire class stared at the two hapless students; a few snickered behind their hands at Luke’s and Mike’s obvious discomfort.

“Thank you, Tilden,” Brown said with a raised eyebrow, but no other outward show of surprise. “There are two free seats up here.”

Professor Brown returned to his lecture as if soddened students always arrived fifteen minutes late. Luke tried to take notes, but he was having trouble following the information and was distracted by his wet pants uncomfortably sticking to his skin. Luke wanted to play hangman with Mike, but he didn’t dare with the professor striding back and forth centimeters from his desk. Luke’s only consolation was that Mike looked just as uncomfortable as he sat scribbling in his notebook.

Finally the bell rang, signaling the end of the period.

“You two stay right here,” Professor Brown said, staring hard at the two boys.

Luke slumped down in his seat. This was the second time today that he had found himself in this position.

The silence continued until Luke tentatively looked up. Professor Brown, who had always seemed remote and detached when he was lecturing, now appeared forbidding. His near black eyes crackled behind his gold rimmed glasses as he glared at the two boys. Standing centimeters from Luke’s desk, he looked far bigger than he did striding behind the podium.

“Do you have anything to say for yourselves, boys?” Brown asked.

Both boys shook their heads.

“This is college, boys. It’s not my responsibility to make you come to class or to study, but if you don’t, you will fail. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t enjoy failing students.” Brown smiled a mirthless smile. “Write a summary of the last chapter, five hundred words. This is not a punishment, even though I’m sure you think it is. I expect it tomorrow morning by eight at my office. Good day, boys.” Brown swept out of the classroom without an additional word.

“What an ass!” Mike said as soon as Brown was out of earshot. “Not a punishment or whatever he was blathering about, but he wants an essay by the crack of dawn. Tonight is the start of the homecoming festivities.”

“At least you only got this, I’ve got extra work from Blake also. I’m going to have to spend the night in the library.”

“Do you even know where the library is?” Mike teased.

“Yes,” Luke groused. “You’re the one who got me into this mess.”

“What do you mean? You chose Russian because you thought the teacher looked hot.”

“I know,” Luke groaned. “I should have chosen the woman who looked like an apple dumpling who teaches French. But you picked this class.”

“I was told Brown was an easy teacher.” Mike shrugged. “I guess the info was wrong.”

“Someone was putting you on, roomie. I’m sure they’re laughing their butts off at us now. See if I ever take your advice again.”

“Hey, don’t blame it on me. I told you I was a brat. You shouldn’t look to me for advice. You need one of those know it all types, a handsome top to rescue your ass.”

“Don’t I know,” Luke said with a sigh. “I haven’t seen any good ones floating around looking for a lovable boy.”

“You did apply to be a contestant on the new top and brat show, didn’t you?” Mike asked with a smirk.

“Yeah, but I’ve got more chance of winning the lotto than being picked, which is just as well. When I think about it, being paired with a strange top on a TV show sounds pretty scary.”

“Wimp,” Mike teased.

“I didn’t see you sending an entry in.”

“Well, I don’t look like the classic little boy. I’m tall, dark, and handsome, not a cherubic, blond-haired lad.”

****

 

Tilden leaned back in his chair and propped his hiking boot clad feet on the desk, sending a shower of journals on foreign language teaching to the floor. “ _Gospodi_!” he muttered and scrambled under his desk to pick up the errant journals. Tilden preferred his office tidy, but twenty years of assorted souvenirs from repeated trips to Russia had taken every available space. A collection of Soviet and Russian textbooks dating back to near Stalin’s times lined the shelves; even the space under the desk was stacked with journals and books. The only wall space without shelves was full of framed Soviet era propaganda posters exhorting the workers and peasants to defend Moscow from the fascists. 

Tilden heard a knock on the door. “It’s open,” Tilden called from inside the office.

“I thought I’d take you for lunch today. Trent and Mace are trying out a new menu at the cafe, and they need some taste testers.”

“You’re just trying to cheer me up.”

“Are those two numbskulls you brought to class some of your infamous Russian students?” Milton asked.

“Yes, the most infamous. The proud holders of a 38 and a 54. I don’t think I’ve ever had a student score below a forty before.”

“You can’t make them study.”

“I know that,” Tilden said, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s just I’m not getting through to this generation. I expect I’ll sign a drop form for a third of the class before Friday’s deadline. The dean’s going to give up on Russian if I can’t keep more students enrolled, and the head of the foreign language department is making noise about only offering it on alternate years. We used to offer more than one Slavic language, and now Russian is barely surviving.”

“It’s not your fault,” Milton said, dropping his arm around his friend’s shoulders.

“Maybe I should go to taking three semesters to teach first year Russian like many schools are doing. Freshmen aren’t prepared to study early in the year; I’m probably asking too much of them.”

“Nonsense. You’re a good teacher. Who dragged me through my graduate foreign language requirements?”

“You weren’t a freshman. I must be moving too fast, not engaging the students.”

“Stop beating yourself up,” Milton said with a harder edge to his voice. “Do I need to swat you?”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Tilden said with a grin and danced out of Milton’s reach. “Don’t get all toppy with me. I’m not one of your boys.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Milton teased. “You sure as hell were acting like one. Come on, let’s go. All the food will be gone if we don’t hurry. It’s a beautiful day; let’s walk.”

West Banner was always beautiful in the final days of fall. The foliage was picture postcard perfect, each tree a mixture of rich reds and oranges. Tilden and Milton strolled down the main street still paved in cobblestones and bustling with tourist darting in and out of the antique stores and used bookshops. 

The Olde Curiosity Shop was booming. Four to six people crammed around the small tables designed for two. Students and elderly tourist mingled at the soda counter, both enjoying an old-fashioned malt or the house specialty, a brown cow. Other people ate standing up, clutching a plastic plate in one hand while leafing through volumes plucked from the overflowing bookshelves with the other. Only the rare book section was off limits to customers with food or drink.

Mace, carrying a tray of water glasses, waved at Tilden and Milton and signaled for them to wait. He was a small man, barely breaking the tape at 170 centimeters. His owlish glasses gave him the appearance of an academic which contrasted sharply with the large silver buckle proclaiming his prowess in bareback bronc riding and his slight limp. A thousand pound horse had landed on his right ankle, pulverizing the bone and leaving Mace with a joint that could set off airport metal detectors worldwide. 

“I saved you a table up front,” Mace said in his usual slow drawl. “I’m glad you showed up. I thought the crowd might lynch me if the table stayed empty any longer.”

“If you need to seat your paying guests, I have a sandwich back in my office,” Tilden said and started for the door.

“Oh no you don’t.” Mace snagged Tilden’s arm. “We did the menu especially for you. The first course is schi or borsch. For the main course we have cutlets or chicken Kiev with fried potatoes and for dessert apple baba, vanilla ice cream, or both.”

“Are you ganging up on me?” Tilden asked.

“No, never,” Mace and Milton answered simultaneously. “Now come sit down,” Mace continued, “Trent will be upset if you don’t sample his cuisine. We’ve even have black bread from the Russian bakery in New York.”

Tilden trailed Mace to the table when he realized that escape was futile. On the table was a traditional start to a Russian meal: both black and white bread, hard-boiled eggs, red caviar, and an assortment of pickles. Two bottles of mineral water and a European fruit flavored soda were artfully arranged to create a centerpiece.

“We also have tea if you like. I even liberated two of your Russian tea glass holders; the podstanniks or whatever you call them,” Mace said.

“ _Podstakannik_ or _podstakanniki_ if there are more than one. Of course if you’re talking about two, you should use the genitive singular _podstakannika_ ,” Tilden said, smiling to let his companions know that he was playing along with their game. “No vodka?”

“You teach this afternoon,” Milton said. “I don’t think the head of the department would be thrilled. The students might like it though. An authentic cultural experience.”

“A bit too authentic for me,” Tilden said primly.

“So what will you have?” Mace asked.

“What do you advise?” Tilden asked, playing on a first year dialogue that all three men knew and was a frequent joke when they dined at restaurants.

“I advise the chicken; it is very delicious,” Mace replied with mock seriousness.

“I’ll take the borsch and the chicken. For the third course, I’ll take the baba.”

“I’ll have the same,” Milton said.

Milton and Tilden were almost finished with lunch when Trent, Mace’s partner, walked up to the table carrying a small package wrapped in brightly colored tissue paper. “This came in a couple of months ago, and I was just waiting for the right time to give it to you,” Trent said.

“It’s not my birthday.” Tilden raised and eyebrow and looked sharply at his two friends.

“I know, but we all thought you needed a little pick-me-up,” Trent said. “We’re tired of watching your black mood. Open it.”

“Why do I think this is a conspiracy?” Tilden asked with a laugh.

“Because it is,” Trent and Milton said together.

Tilden tore the paper off the package. He had always liked gifts, especially the non-practical kind that his friends usually selected. His parents, whom he loved dearly, were always practical and hated shopping; every Christmas and birthday a check arrived in the mail. “ _First Year Russian for Christian Schools—_ where on earth did you find it?”

“I have a friend who is a bookseller in the Republic of Texas,” Trent said. “He knows I have a market for unusual Russian books, and he sent it to me. You should read the dialogues; they’re great—lots of lines like ‘Have you been saved?’ and ‘Are you baptized?’”

“That’s practical.” Tilden rolled his eyes. “Next time I’m lost in the Moscow Metro instead of asking directions I’ll talk about Jesus.” 

“Texas leaving the union was the best thing that ever happened to this country,” Milton said. “It sure makes teaching history easier; I don’t have to worry about being accused of having a liberal, homosexual loving agenda.”

“Stop with the political nattering,” Trent teased. “We want to cheer Tilden up, not depress him.”

“The final meal for the condemned.” Tilden looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go; I can’t be late for my class. The dean and the head of the department are already looking for reasons to axe Russian; I don’t want to give them any more ammunition. Thanks for the book.” 

Tilden curved his lips into a smile and tried to wave jauntily as he left the store, but his thoughts were grim. No matter how hard his housemates tried to cheer him up, they couldn’t change the facts. The Russian program was on the short list for extinction and with it his job. Since he’d started teaching, the Russian program had halved in size and was still shrinking.

Tilden enjoyed teaching at Banner, but in reality he had few ties to this small college. He was unattached despite the best efforts of Milton’s partner Sheldon to set him up with a suitable man, and while he owned half the house he shared with Milton, Tilden was sure Milton would buy his share out if necessary. Maybe it was time to apply to a bigger university; his credentials were good, and a big city might inject a spark in his private life. He would miss this New England village, and he would especially miss Milton, but life wasn’t static.

 

 

Tilden unlocked the front door of the large Victorian house that he shared with Trent, Milton, and their partners. He scooped up the mail that was scattered across the parquet floor in the hallway and carried it to the kitchen table to sort. 

Technically the house was divided into three apartments, but they’d never bothered to install separate post boxes. The second and third floor could be reached by a rear stair, which in the house’s glory days had been the servant stairs, and each floor had its own small kitchen. Tilden and Milton had purchased the home together when they has both landed tenure track positions. While they’d never been lovers, they’d both been close friends since they’d roomed together Milton’s second year of college. Trent and Mace rented the third floor or attic space as they jokingly called it. It was hardly a starving student’s garret apartment with its two large rooms and spacious windows overlooking the town and the rolling countryside in the distance. Mace, with his disarming cowboy charm, had quickly changed from tenant to close friend, and now he and his partner spent more time on the first and second floors than in the attic. Everyone appreciated their cooking expertise, and they preferred not to schlepp groceries up two flights of stairs. All five men lived in the house more as if they were one large extended family rather than apartment dwellers.

Tilden glanced at the large manilla envelope’s return address and started automatically to put it in Sheldon’s stack since it was from the parent company of the television station where Sheldon worked when he realized it was for him and not Sheldon. Tilden tore open the envelope and read the cover letter. Unbelieving, he read the letter again, determining that his reading comprehension skills had not failed him. According to the letter, Tilden Blake had been selected as a finalist for the second season of _Meet Your Mate: Top and Brat Special Edition_.

I’m going to kill that boy, Tilden thought, staring at the letter. Tilden knew he’d not entered any contest or applied for any auditions. Sheldon must have entered him without his knowledge; Sheldon was the only one with both the means and the opportunity. Tilden ran his fingers through his fine, brown hair as he glanced through the packet of papers from the TV station: multiple forms indemnifying the station and the network for damages, a form requesting release of medical records, financial history, and criminal background, cards informing him with appointment times with the show’s counseling service and the casting director. The final letter explained that if he satisfactorily completed all the requirement, he would have approximately a one in three chance of being selected.

Tilden heard the back door open and footsteps behind him heading rapidly towards the stair. “Sheldon, is that you?”

“Yeah, how’d your day go? I heard Mace and Trent made you a special lunch.”

“I was fine until I got the mail. Do you have any idea why?” Tilden asked with a raised eyebrow.

Sheldon stood with one hand on the stair rail, poised to go up, but now frozen in place by the expression on Tilden’s face. He stared at Tilden, his eyes wary. Tilden knew he wasn’t the dominant that Milton was. He rarely engaged in the discipline rituals except for an occasional well placed swat to stop dangerous behavior when Milton was out of town, but Sheldon’s reaction suggested that he was unsure if this was going to be the first time. 

“Did the bank lose the mortgage check? Is the town going to demolish the house to make way for a new superhighway?” Sheldon shifted nervously from foot to foot when Tilden did not even crack a small smile at Sheldon’s attempt at humor. 

“Does this look familiar?” Tilden asked, walking over to Sheldon, who was gripping the banister fiercely, and waving the envelope under his nose.

“It looks like an envelope from my work. But why is it addressed to you?”

“You really don’t know? Does a reality program come to mind, matchmaking at its finest?”

Sheldon groaned. “You mean you were picked by _Meet Your Mate_?”

“Ah, so it’s coming back to you now. And whose brilliant idea was it to put my private life on display?”

“Oh, man, it was just supposed to be a bit of fun. I never thought you’d get picked. Do you have to tell Milton about this?” Sheldon asked with a pleading look in his eyes.

“No, but you do. Why don’t you go upstairs and wait for him? He had a departmental meeting this evening.” Tilden gently squeezed the back of Sheldon’s neck. “I’m not very happy right now, but nobody’s going to be killed here. It’ll work itself out.”

Sheldon nodded, bit his lip, and ran up the stairs.

Tilden was still sitting at the table an hour later when Milton came in the door, swinging his messenger bag off his shoulder and hanging it on the Shaker peg by the door. “I thought Sheldon would be down here shooting the breeze with you. Is he not home yet?”

“He’s upstairs waiting to talk to you.”

“Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good,” Milton said with pursed lips. “What did he do now?”

“I said that I’d let him tell you.” Milton made a grab for one of the sheets of paper scattered in front of his friend on the table, but Tilden blocked him with his arm. “I think it would be better if you heard it from Sheldon first.”

“He’s not going to prison or something?” Milton asked with a grin as he mounted the stairs to head upstairs.

 

****

Milton entered the bedroom to find Sheldon curled up in a shabby, brown velvet armchair, his head resting on the oversized rolled arm. He’d already changed to a pair of pale blue boxers and a ragged Banner College sweatshirt that made him look more like a homesick freshman than a successful television executive. Sheldon looked up, his emerald eyes glistening with unshed tears. 

Milton strode over to the chair, scooped his partner up, and resettled Sheldon on his lap. Sheldon always made for the comfort of this massive chair when he was upset. Milton frequently suggested that they leave it out for the trash man to collect, but its nostalgic value always won out over decorating needs. Sheldon had purchased the chair the first year of their partnership at a church rummage sale. Six years ago the fabric had been worn; now it was threadbare around the arms and the cushion edges and still smelled faintly of the previous owner’s cats. “OK, what’s going on here?” Milton said softly into Sheldon’s red hair, pulling his lover’s head closer to his chest. “Tilden seems upset with you.”

“You know the show _Meet Your Mate_?” Sheldon mumbled into Milton’s shirt.

“Yes,” Milton replied warily.

“I entered Tilden as a participant, and he was selected for the finalist pool,” Sheldon said in a rush. 

Milton pushed Sheldon off his chest, so he could study his boy’s face. “Do I understand you correctly? You entered a close friend in a contest for a spot on a tasteless reality program without his knowledge or permission?”

Sheldon nodded and burrowed back into Tilden’s chest. “I thought it would be fun. I didn’t think of it as an invasion of privacy, and I never thought he would be picked.”

“I don’t know why you didn’t think he would be picked? He’s a good looking guy with a great personality and an interesting history. How many potential tops spend their summers building park benches at Yellowstone or traveling on the Trans-Siberian across the expanse of Mother Russia?”

“You forgot about his Soviet era matchbook collection.”  

“You wrote his backstory, didn’t you, and filled out all the forms? How much did you tell about us?”

“What do mean?” Sheldon asked with feigned innocence.

“Living with two established couples had to be a detail you couldn’t resist. The show’s producers are probably swooning over the idea. We’d make their sweeps month—a potential group orgy.”

“No, no. That’s not what I wanted to happen. It’s just...”

“What?” Milton asked softly, gliding his hand down his partner’s back.

“He’s so lonely, and he’s a great top. He deserves someone.”

“I don’t think it’s our role to play matchmaker for him.” Milton remembered the few times that Sheldon and Mace had tried to set Tilden up with a perspective partner; they’d been unmitigated disasters—a dancer whose more correct title was prostitute, a small time Russian thug who wanted to smuggle caviar among other things, and the lawyer who had a wife in Omaha who he’d conveniently forgotten to mention. “We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we?”

Sheldon nodded, keeping his head buried in Milton’s chest.

“Why am I going to spank you?” Milton’s voice was soft and without anger. 

“Because I interfered in the life of my housemate,” Sheldon mumbled, his voice raw with unshed tears.

“Why don’t you go in the sitting room and get ready.” Milton gently pushed his lover from his lap and steered him toward the door. He watched as Sheldon walked across the room to the connecting door. From his head down posture, it was clear that Sheldon was losing the battle against tears, and Milton would find him in the corner with wet cheeks.

After Sheldon shut the door behind him, Milton let out a soft sigh. He hated doing this when Sheldon was upset, especially for what had started as lighthearted mischief with the best intentions, but dragging Tilden, uninformed, into public matchmaking was out of bounds in the games they played. Sheldon enjoyed being a brat, and they both played the game with enthusiasm, but Milton was dominant in their relationship beyond the gamesmanship, and this was one of those times where real life and role playing would bleed together. Sheldon was right that Tilden needed a partner, but his implementation even for a young man as interesting and volatile as Sheldon was extreme. 

Milton walked over to the chest of drawers and opened the top drawer; buried among the socks was a wooden paddle. Milton picked it up and then put it back down. Would Sheldon need to be paddled for this, or would a hand spanking be enough? Had he involved Mace? It was a rule in this household if you involved the other boy in your schemes then it was a paddling offense. He’d forgotten to ask, but Milton knew his boy and reluctantly took the paddle from the drawer. Spanking Sheldon could be a joy, the small butt turning from sweet pink to flaming red, but this was a punishment spanking, a reminder of Sheldon’s place in the relationship and the respect to which they were all entitled. Tilden was a dominant; it didn’t mean he wanted it advertised on national television.

Sheldon was standing in the corner, his head resting on the wall. When he heard Milton’s footsteps, he twisted and glanced back over his shoulder.

“Stand up straight. Face the corner,” Milton barked. This was all part of their ritual. Milton couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t said the same words when entering the sitting room to spank his partner. He pulled the straight back chair from the corner and grabbed the remote control for the television. It was an established norm if the TV or radio volume was on too high, someone probably wanted privacy. If Tilden had a boy, he’d probably play the _1812 Overture_ ; the cannons would certainly cover crying, Milton thought with a smile.  “Sheldon, come here please,” Milton said and sat down in the chair. 

Sheldon turned and slowly walked towards his partner. “Are you going to use that?” Sheldon asked, looking at the paddle.

“Do we need to? Did you get Mace involved?” Milton reached out and grasped his partner’s wrist.

“Yeah, he wrote the personal recommendation.” 

“What’s the rule about that?”

“If I get my friend in trouble, I get paddled.”

“Let’s get this done.” Milton guided Sheldon over his knees, wrapping his left arm around his partner’s waist and reassuringly rubbing Sheldon’s back a moment before slipping off his boxers and landing the first swat. As always, Milton spanked quickly and silently; the only sounds in the room were stifled sobs that changed to full throated cries at the first swat of the paddle. Milton stopped paddling after a rapid ten strokes. “It’s all over, imp.”

Milton let Sheldon lay over his knees until the sobs slowed to gentle crying. As with the spanking, Milton found that it was more effective to let his hands do the talking. He gently stroked his repentant boy’s back.

“I’m sorry,” Sheldon choked out. “I didn’t do it to embarrass Tilden or us.”

“Shh, I know. It’s all over now. Do you want to apologize to him now or in the morning?”

“Now.”

Milton helped his partner up and guided him to the bathroom where he wiped Sheldon’s eyes. “You don’t want to look too horrific. You know how Tilden is; he hates it when you get spanked.”

“I know.” Sheldon hung his head.

Milton placed his finger under Sheldon’s chin and lifted it. “We’ve already discussed this. There is no need to feel guilty unless you need more time over my knees.”

“No, no. You were quite thorough,” Sheldon said, rubbing his butt. “I just don’t like to upset Tilden.”

“He’ll live. He understands that you can be a brat. Let’s go; he’ll want to know that you’re all right.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sheldon said, managing a small smile. “He’s probably hiding in his study with that dreadful Russian rock music turned up to full volume, pretending to grade papers.”

“Don’t mention that you think the music is dreadful. I don’t think either of us want a lecture on the history of Russian rock music.”

“I won’t.”

“Come on, let’s get this done.” Milton wrapped his arm around Sheldon’s shoulders and guided him down the stairs. As expected, Tilden was nowhere to be seen; the door to the study was firmly shut, and the faint sound of a hoarse male voice, probably DDT’s lead singer, wafted from the room. Still keeping his arm around his partner’s shoulders, Milton rapped on the door once and pushed his partner into the room.

Tilden opened his arms, and Sheldon ducked out from under Milton’s arm and ran into Tilden’s embrace. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s OK. It’s all been taken care of.” Tilden soothed, kissing the top of Sheldon’s head before releasing him to go back to his partner.

Milton nodded at Tilden and gave him a small smile before he led Sheldon back upstairs.  “Why don’t you get into bed? I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.” Milton drew back the coverlet and eased his partner into bed. 

Sheldon curled against Milton. “The paperwork I filled out for the show is in my desk drawer. I think Tilden ought to see it.”

“Don’t worry about it; just go to sleep.” Milton rubbed Sheldon’s back until the slow, deep breathing signaled that he was asleep. Milton cautiously extracted himself from under his partner and eased the bedroom door shut as he headed toward the study to read the application.

Milton flipped through the papers before settling down on the corner of the desk to more carefully read the descriptive essay titled “Why I am Right for a Brat” and the character reference provided by Mace. It was obvious from the careful crafting of the essay and the heartfelt personal reference that neither boy had taken this lightly, and the depth of both their feelings toward Tilden was clear. Both young men adored Tilden as their kindly uncle who could provide the support of a top if either of their partners were absent. They feared losing his undivided attention, but felt he deserved a boy of his own.

Tilden was in the kitchen, puttering around with a cup of tea when Milton came down the stairs. “Do you want some tea?”

“No, thanks. Sheldon’s out for the count. I think you ought to read what he and Mace wrote. It’s special, and I don’t think a summary does it justice.” 

Tilden read the essay and the recommendation letter twice before he set it down on the table with a sigh. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Those boys really love you. And they’re right, you know, you deserve a partner.”

“You’re not suggesting I go through with this, are you?” Tilden said, outraged.

“No, that’s up to you. It does seem a bit exhibitionist for you.”

“I don’t know,” Tilden muttered.

“Are you considering it?” Milton asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

“I’m not getting any younger, and it might be fun.”

“Midlife daring!”

“Do you think I’m insane to consider doing it?”

Milton pretended to think for a few minutes. He tugged on his beard and rubbed his earlobe. “Well, it’s a little out of character for you, but no, I don’t think you’re insane. If you can take the bit of public embarrassment, it might be fun. Who knows, maybe you’ll hit the jackpot and find the right young man for you.”

“What do you think the college will think about it?”

“Nancy will choke on her coffee.” Milton smiled at the thought of coffee splattering down the dean’s immaculate red pantsuit. “But I think your department head will be thrilled. Think of all the publicity. You’ll have students drooling to be in class with the handsome television star.”

Tilden took another sip of tea, swirling the dark liquid around in his glass.

“Well, are you going to do it?”

“I’ll think about it.” 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys continue their adventure in the Reality Check Universe.

**Meet Your Mate**

**Chapter 2**

 

Tilden wiped his hands on his trousers for the umpteenth time. He couldn’t believe how nervous he was. He was a top. As a top, he was supposed to be cool and collected, at least outwardly, not a sweaty palmed man, pacing around the trays of finger food in the greenroom. He stole a glance at the other tops in the room, the competition so to speak. There were twelve tops and only ten perspective partners or brats as the show liked to call the young men. Milton had given Tilden a brief lecture on why the show had chosen the nomenclature of brat over submissive, but Tilden had frankly been too nervous to absorb most of the details, his mind focused on the reality that two tops would go home tonight without a brat. Tilden would never have entered this crazy game, but now that he had he desperately wanted a young man to take home.

 A tall, blond man was talking with a thin man from the Indian subcontinent. Tilden couldn’t distinguish Mumbai English from the accent of Islamabad, but if he had to guess, he would say Indian. They seemed to both be doctors, at least from the snippets of their conversation that Tilden could hear over the background chatter. The blond man monopolized the conversation with tales of shoulder reconstruction on major league pitchers. 

Across the hors-d'oeuvres tray, a freckled faced man, who looked hardly old enough to be out of high school, snorted. “He sure thinks he’s hot stuff. He only works on one species. I’d like to see him neuter a sugar glider.”

“A sugar glider?” 

“Small nocturnal mammal that some insane people decided would make a good pocket pet. I’m Brad Roberts, by the way. I’m a vet if you haven’t already guessed.”

“I’m Tilden Blake—college professor.”

“Intimidating group, isn’t it?” Brad said, surveying the other ten men in the room.

“Hmm.” Tilden nodded.

“Do you see the African American guy in the corner with the bottle of water? You can almost see the muscles through his T-shirt. He was on the men’s gymnastics team four years ago, won a silver medal on the pommel horse at the Olympics.”

“November seems a bit chilly for a T-shirt.” Tilden looked down at his own blue jeans and burgundy open necked long sleeve polo. He’d been going to wear khakis and an oxford shirt which Sheldon had said screamed stodgy college professor. Instead, Sheldon had dressed him in slightly worn jeans and styled his hair in an artfully windblown position, using enough hairspray that Tilden feared he might self-combust if a match were struck within two meters of him. Tilden felt self-conscious, but Sheldon insisted he looked like a ruggedly handsome top.

“Spoken like a true top.” Brad laughed. “A sweater would hide all those beautiful muscles.”

“Well, at least that skinny guy over by cookies doesn’t look like a male model.”

“Yeah, but he manages one of the most successful hedge funds in New York. His portfolio is worth more than some African countries’ budgets.”

They were interrupted by an authoritative voice. “Gentlemen, please. May I have your attention.”

A burly, dark haired man was standing in the center of the room, waiting for their attention. He had earlier introduced himself as Jack, the coordinator for the tops.

“In a minute I’ll need you to file into the studio and take your seats. Remember you’ll be sitting behind one-way glass. Please take your places according to your assigned numbers. The first six numbers are in the front row, seven through twelve in the back. The brats and the studio audience will be able to see you, but you can’t see them. All the brats have seen your information sheets, but this is the first time they will find out your names. Each brat will have a chance to ask three questions. After the question period, they will select their top. Good luck, gentlemen!”

Tilden had number five. He noticed as he filed in that he would be sitting between the vet and top number four whom he hadn’t met. Number four was tall with flaxen hair and brilliant blue eyes. He reminded Tilden of the men in the travel brochures advertising romantic cruises in the Norwegian fjords and invigorating hikes in the Swiss Alps. The twelve men took their seats in a quiet, orderly fashion.

“I’ll bet they’ll need Border Collies to get the brats in their chairs,” a top joked from the second tier of seats.”

“They’ll need more than that, I bet,” another top commented. “There’s probably at least one vomiting in the bathroom and another sobbing on some poor Good Samaritan's shoulder.”

The vet turned to Tilden and mouthed, “Arrogant jerk.”

Tilden smiled, relieved that he wasn’t the only one who thought that comment was in poor taste. He was feeling a little queasy himself and took a few sips of his bottle of water to wet his mouth.

A man with a studio ID hanging from a lanyard around his neck motioned for silence. “We’re on the air in five.”

The room was silent for the five seconds then the voice of the show’s host came blaring over the speakers. “Welcome to the second _Meet your Mate: Top and Brat Special Edition_. Today we have ten brats who will select from twelve tops. Let the selection begin.

“Our first brat hails from the sunny state of Florida. He works as a groundskeeper for the Miami-Dade County parks department. His hobbies include deep sea fishing, beach volleyball, and golf. His first question is to top number three.”

Tilden craned his neck to see top number three, a dark haired man with shoulder length hair. He was wearing tight leather pants and a gray silk shirt. Tilden thought he’d introduced himself as a nightclub owner.

“As a nightclub owner, would you allow your brat to participate in all the activities in your club?”

“Everything but what goes on in the bathroom behind closed doors.”

A few tops chuckled at that comment.

The top continued, “Seriously, I would expect my boy to participate in my business activities: come to the club every evening and mingle with the guests. An introverted boy would find life with me difficult.”

The questions continued, some frivolous including a question about a top’s favorite color and other more serious questions about implements and discipline strategy. No questions had been directed to Tilden by the first two brats.

“Brat number three currently resides in Seattle. He came to this country with his parents fifteen years ago as a political refugee from the Republic of Texas. He works for a nonprofit organization helping asylum seekers resettle in the Pacific Northwest. His hobbies include crossword puzzles, mountain climbing, and reading romance novels. His first question is for top number five.”

“From reading the mini bio provided, I understand you live with two other tops. How do you feel having other tops around will affect your discipline strategy, and would you let the other tops discipline your brat?”

Tilden smiled and rubbed his chin. “I don’t get an easy one like what’s my favorite color.”  Tilden could hear a faint laugh from the studio audience, and he paused before he continued. “I’ve had the pleasure of watching two couples for six years and three years respectively manage a power exchange relationship. Does this affect my discipline strategy? I’m sure it does. I’ve been able to see what works and what doesn’t, and I have experienced tops and brats to consult if I’m unsure. Of course having brats in close proximity will give my young man more opportunity to get into mischief, but it will also give him an experienced example to follow. We do have house rules in place about boys implementing the domino theory. These, of course, will remain in force. I expect my boy to respect the other tops, but major discipline is usually handled by the brat’s partner. I’ve swatted my housemates’ brats or put them in a corner, but I’ve never put them over my knees to spank them. I can’t say there would never be a situation where I wouldn’t mete out major discipline, but it would have to be exceptional. I expect the same would happen for my brat. I hope this answers the question. I can see where three tops could be very daunting.”

Tilden could hear the muffled laughter from the brats at his last comment. Tilden sat back and took a long drink of water. He hoped the idea of three tops didn’t scare all the boys away. Brat number three’s next question was to top number seven.

“As a member of your state legislative body and an active member of the Socialist Front Party, do you think being openly in a power sharing relationship will affect your political future?”

“The Socialist Front has always been in the forefront in the push for civil rights in this country. We led the fight for the legalization of same sex marriage twenty years ago, and we as a party believe that the relationship between the two or more parties in a life partnership is private and sacred. No stigma should be attached to a power sharing relationship.”

“Is he looking for a partner or running for political office?” Brad whispered to Tilden.

“Political office, I think,” Tilden whispered back.

“Brat number four is a college student. He hails from the great state of New York, and his major interest is having a good time. His first question is to top number five.”

“Would you spank for poor academic performance?”

“I take it your grades are a bit of a problem.” Tilden heard a muttered “yeah” from the brat.  “It depends,” Tilden said, trying to buy time to put his thoughts in order. He’d seen Milton use physical sanctions in what appeared to be real life, but he’d also heard Milton talk about role play and games. It was a confusing mix that Tilden didn’t understand, and he was supposed to make a coherent two minute policy statement on it. “If I were your top, and you were having academic difficulty I would first work to develop a successful study strategy together.” Well, that sounded safe; Tilden would do that for any student. “Once the ground rules had been established, we could discuss sanctions for violating those ground rules.” That sounded wishy-washy. “For instance if you went to a frat party and you were supposed to be studying for an exam, I would spank and put you on restriction. Now if you prepared properly and were still having academic difficulty, you wouldn’t be punished. I might go have a chat with your professor to see if there was anything I could do to help.”

“Brat number four’s next question is for top number six.”

“Would you let your brat have a pet?”

“Yes of course within reason—no farm animals in the house and definitely no primates. I already have two dogs, a hamster, a military macaw and a palm cockatoo. Your pet would have to be compatible with mine.”

“Unfair, you got an easy question,” Tilden whispered to Brad.

“That’s because I’m not a professor living in a household with two other tops. You’re supposed to be an expert.”

So why did he feel like a fraud or an incompetent? Tilden thought. Milton knew how to do this—this strange mixture of erotic play and real life guidance. Sheldon thrived with Milton even if Tilden still shuddered at the ease with which Milton flipped his boy over his knee. Tilden knew that half the time or maybe three quarters of the time it was play. Tilden understood that; he understood the mutual pleasure. It was the other side that left Tilden confused, a side on which he’d participated by instinct, but he couldn’t explain. Milton said it had to do with dominance and submission, and it wasn’t discipline or punishment alone, but entwined with the submission and the power exchange.

No other questions were addressed to Tilden until brat number eight.

“From reading your bio, I understand you have some interesting hobbies including I quote ‘collecting Politburo trading cards and learning the twenty most common expressions in one hundred different languages.’ Would you be willing to participate in more active hobbies with a brat?”

“There was only so much room on the bio forms, but I also enjoy more common activities, such as hiking and canoeing. I’m always game to try new things. I’d never skied until I met Milton my first year of college. Now we go nearly every winter. Mace and his partner both ride, and we went pony trekking last year in Ireland. I’d never been on a horse until I met Mace. One of the advantages of living in a household with two other couples is that you can probably find someone who enjoys your favorite pastimes or is at least game to try it.” 

No more questions were directed toward Tilden. Following the final question, the brats were given ten minutes to organize their thoughts and select a top. The brats were advised to select at least two alternate candidates because as each brat made his selection fewer tops were in the pool. Brat number ten would be left with only three choices.

The host’s voice filled the room. “Now for the first time the tops will see the man who has selected them to spend the next six months together and hopefully a lifetime. After the final selection, the live studio audience and the television audience are invited to vote for the pair that they think are the best matched. The winner will receive a new bedroom set courtesy of Sleep Specials. And now for our first pick. Brat number one.”

“I choose top number eleven.”

 A tall, lanky top stood. He’d described himself as an independently wealthy rancher who taught ski school all winter and was a river guide all summer. The next brat chose the gymnast. He leaped up and pumped his fist into the air before jogging down the aisle and disappearing to meet his brat. Brat number three was the next to make his pick.

“I choose number six.”

“Hey, that’s me,” Brad said.

“Congratulations.” Tilden reached over and shook Brad’s hand. I hope you make a happy pair.”

“Me too, talk about a blind date.” Brad smiled broadly and bounced out of the tops’ room.

Tilden had just settled back in his chair when the next brat made his pick.

“I choose top number five.”

That’s me, Tilden thought, too numb to move. Behind him a top slapped his back and congratulated him. Somehow he moved down the aisle and into the next room to meet his new brat.

A young, blond-haired man was standing partially obscured by the host.

“Luka,” Tilden said softly, hardly believing his own eyes. He’d been giving Luke extra tutoring sessions. While it had been obvious to him that Luke was a submissive, he hadn’t realized the boy was attracted to him.

Luke ran toward him and threw himself at Tilden. Tilden opened his arms and automatically pulled the shaking young man to his chest.

“Shh, it’s going to be OK. We’ll get this figured out.”

“You’re not mad at me, are you, Professor Blake?”

“Mad, no—surprised, yes. And I think you better start to call me Tilden. Professor Blake seems a bit formal for our situation, don’t you agree?”

Luke was still clinging to Tilden when a studio employee escorted them to what Tilden later learned was the kiss and cry room. A woman, whom Tilden thought he recognized from a previous bake-off show, shoved a microphone in their face. She was pretty, Tilden thought, probably hired to keep the straight population interested.

“Luke, can you tell us why you chose Professor Tilden Blake.”

Luke wiped his eyes, trying to hide the tears that had started to fall when Tilden put his arms around him. “He didn’t seem as scary as the other tops.”

“Tilden, when you walked out on the floor, it seemed that you recognized Luke,” she said, pushing the microphone under Tilden’s nose. 

“I did. He’s in my Russian class.”

The host addressed Luke again. “From your question about academics, I take it you’re not the best student.”

“That’s a bit of an understatement.” Luke laughed and snuck a peek at Tilden.

Tilden ruffled Luke’s hair. “We’ll have to see what we can do about that.”

“Will you spank him for his grades?” she said, turning toward the camera and winking.

“We haven’t negotiated any specific arrangements, so I have no comment at this time.” Tilden tightened his arms around Luke and tried to shield him as much as possible from the obnoxious woman with the microphone.

“Luke, do you think your new top will need to spank you over college stuff?”

“You don’t need to answer that if you don’t want to,” Tilden said protectively. At that moment a new couple entered, and with a swish of her wrap skirt, the woman moved toward the new couple, talking in her microphone the entire time as she walked.

“It seems that our new top, Tilden Blake is already demonstrating the strong protective instincts that all good tops are known for. With his new young charge’s academic difficulties, this should be an exciting couple to watch. How will Tilden balance his protectiveness with his need to discipline young Luke?”

Tilden gave a small wry smile as he listened to the woman’s blather. He was more than relieved to see her move to the next couple. “Luka, are you holding up OK?”

Luke didn’t get a chance to answer because Sheldon came flying in the room, charged over to them, and began talking at machine gun burst speed.

“Slow down, I can’t understand a word you’re saying,” Tilden said. 

“Hey, kiddo, welcome to the gang.” Sheldon grabbed Luke and kissed him on both cheeks French style.

“That’s Sheldon,” Tilden said. “He can be a brat in case you haven’t noticed. Where’s everybody else?”

“Trent and Mace headed home to get some dinner on. It’s a madhouse up front, but I expect my significant other is on his way.”

Tilden caught sight of Milton, called, and waved him over. Milton pushed his way through the throng of people. He had Mike, whom he must have picked up in the audience, securely grasped by his wrist.

Luke watched wide-eyed. “Professor Brown is Sheldon’s top?” he stammered.

“Yes, he is.” Tilden said and looked at Luke’s pale face. “Is something going on in history that I don’t know about?”

“No,” Luke muttered. He was saved from having to elaborate when Milton finally reached them.

Milton gently kissed Luke’s forehead. “Welcome to our house. This is a surprise, but I hope you’ll be happy. He kissed Luke again and stepped back to give Mike a chance to speak to Luke. Milton grabbed Sheldon’s hand and Tilden’s elbow and steered them behind a potted palm tree. “Give them a minute to talk. This is going to be a big change for Luke; he’s going to need all the support from his friends that he can get. Sheldon, can we get out of here?”

“Yeah, let me go give Dave and Lionel a holler. They’re going to be your camera crew. I’ll be back in five.” Sheldon weaved through the crowd, waving his studio ID as needed to escape out an emergency exit door.

“Are you ready for this?” Milton asked, putting a supporting hand on Tilden’s back.

“No, I must have been suffering from temporary insanity when I agreed to this.”

“I think we need to go rescue your new boy from his roommate. Luke already looked like he was one wrong step from a meltdown; he doesn’t need Mike to give him a push. I had to grab Mike in the audience. The enormity of what Luke did hit him a couple minutes after Luke picked you. From what I could tell from his babbling, they’re more than just roommates but also fuck buddies, and they support each other the best they can. They’re both unfettered submissives, so it’s haphazard at best, but it was better than nothing.”

“Great,” Tilden groaned.

Milton’s eyes twinkled, and he gave Tilden a friendly punch on the shoulder. “You may have gone from no boys to two boys in less than an hour. I think that’s a record.”

“I don’t want to even think about that. I’m too old for chasing after two young men.”

“You better watch out, or Mace will have a betting pool on the date Mike moves in. Why don’t you go get Luke, and I’ll try to get Mike on his way home. Sheldon should be back any minute now.”

Tilden hooked an arm around Luke and drew him away from his ex-roommate while Milton gently coerced Mike to move toward the exit and the parking garage. Tilden saw Milton reach into Mike’s hip pocket, extract a ring of keys, and place them in Mike’s hand. Tilden lost Mike and Milton behind the ever shifting sea of people. Family members were grabbing for both tops and brats, hugging and kissing them as if they were going off to war. Tilden was reminded of the pictures of soldiers hanging out the windows of troop trains desperate for a last touch or kiss from a loved one. The main host for the program plus two or three other vultures kept shoving microphones in the new couples’ faces trying to get a reaction. Tilden did his best to protect Luke, keeping both of them planted in the corner of the room, partially shielded by eight foot tall papier-mâché statues of Venus, Mars and their son Cupid.

 

****

 

Luke was relieved to find himself in the relative anonymity of the shadows of the Roman gods. It gave him a chance to catch his breath; it seemed that the earth had picked up speed on her axis. This morning he’d been a carefree, single guy, enjoying a friendly fuck with his roommate, and now he belonged to his forbidding Russian professor and a house full of tops; one of whom he hadn’t even met yet. Luke moved closer to the man who now possessively kept his hand on his shoulder—Tilden—his top—his partner and lover. Was lover too much to hope for? 

Professor Blake—no it’s Tilden now—had been tough but kind to him in class. After that disastrous first test, he’d taken Luke in hand and pretty much dragged him kicking and screaming through first year Russian. Tilden’s words had been scorching enough when Luke had been merely a student. What would he do to him now when he found out the true depth of his academic catastrophe? He was supposed to have an outline for Professor Brown on a major paper by Monday, and he hadn’t even chosen a topic. Luke had seen Professor Brown nearly frisk Mike for his keys and frog march him to the parking garage. He was damn scary; Luke couldn’t stop the small shiver that ran through his body.

Tilden tightened his arm around Luke’s shoulder. “Are you still hanging in there?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Luke replied automatically. Luke felt Tilden pull him around, so they were face to face. The weight of Tilden’s hands rested securely and authoritatively on Luke’s shoulders. 

“Life will be easier if we stop with the little social lies right now. _Soglasen, Luka?”_ Tilden was staring at Luke, waiting for an answer.

Luke could feel his neck turning red, and he blinked back the unwelcome feeling of tears. He stared down at the carpet and managed to mumble, “Yes.”

“The correct response is _soglasen_. It means agreed.” Tilden smiled and squeezed Luke’s shoulder. “I’ll get you through this.”

There was that smile; the smile in the course catalog that had originally enticed Luke to take Russian. It wasn’t a broad grin, but the warmth was clear, and the small crinkles around the eyes and the sparkles in the deep blue almost violet irises captivated Luke’s heart. Tilden hadn’t been the richest top to choose from or the most classically handsome, but he’d felt right. Luke hadn’t wanted to be a pretty bauble to be cast off when the top became bored with him or exasperated with his behavior. Luke let himself be drawn into Tilden’s chest. This man could definitely handle him. In fact, Luke suspected he might handle him a bit more than he wanted.

“Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you. Milton and Sheldon should be back any minute, and we can get out of here.”  

Milton arrived, towing Sheldon by the collar of his jacket. “Sorry, it took so long, he kept disappearing.” Even with the firm hold on his collar, Sheldon was bouncing up and down like a kangaroo on a pogo stick. Milton glanced over his shoulder, and gave Sheldon a quick swat on the butt. “Settle down, now.”

Luke flinched at the sound of the swat. Sheldon drew his breath in with a quiet hiss, but otherwise it caused little change in his demeanor.

Milton turned toward Tilden. “It looks like it’s going to be a long night. Let’s get both these guys out of here.” Milton looked directly at Luke, his eyes penetrating. “You’re going to stay between us. Keep going no matter who tries to talk to you. Understand?”

Luke nodded. He shrank back into Tilden’s arms, glad for some protection from Milton’s glare. Captured by those fierce eyes, he might have agreed to anything. Milton turned toward his partner and whispered dire threats of bodily harm if Sheldon as much as stepped more than a half meter from him. Milton stood in front of Luke’s left shoulder, making the spearhead through the crowd, and Tilden kept his left arm securely around Luke’s shoulders as they headed toward the door. They’d crossed halfway to the door when two microphone wielding hosts pounced on them.

“Luke, can you tell us how you feel about going to a household with multiple tops? Have you met all the tops and brats that live in your new home?” they shouted over the din.

Milton didn’t pause. The commentators were forced to step aside or be mown down by Milton’s onslaught. Tilden pushed Luke forward. Behind them Luke could hear one of the announcers speaking into the microphone.

“Our young college boy seems to have chosen a highly protective top. How do you think this is going to change his life?”

The second commentator chimed in, “I expect late nights and keg parties are a thing of the past for him. It looks like he’s going to be closely supervised. This should be a fun couple to watch.” Their words were lost in the haze of general noise as Luke found himself out of earshot.

“Through here,” Sheldon said and opened a door with his studio ID. 

Luke was feeling numb as he was hustled through the back corridors of the studio building. He was bundled into a car with the speed and deftness of the Secret Service protecting the president.

Luke slumped against the seat, relieved that no one was asking him any questions or depending on him to make decisions because he felt like a stranger watching life happen to someone else. This young, blond boy guarded by two tops couldn’t be him. This had to be an alcohol induced hallucination. Tomorrow he would wake up in his dorm room with nothing but a headache and fragmented memories of vibrant dreams.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke and Tilden start their new life together.

**Meet Your Mate**

**Chapter 3**

 

Luke rolled over in the strange bed and stared at the numerals on the clock. It was still early, barely after four. He would usually be slipping off to bed at this time of night on a weekend, not longing to get up. Luke slid out from the bed and padded across to the bathroom. Nature relieved, he stared at himself in the mirror. He didn’t look any different than yesterday: blond hair tangled from sleep, blue eyes wide and innocent, and the faintest shadow of a straw colored beard on his unshaven cheeks. He felt different, terrified. His dad was always telling him to think before he acted. If only he’d followed that advice this one time. Too late now. He’d made his bed, and now he would have to lie in it.

Luke stumbled back through the room, stubbing his toe on the nightstand. “Fuck! Shit!” He clapped his hand over his mouth; he didn’t want to wake any of the tops in the house. Nocturnal ramblings were probably forbidden. If last night was any indication, they were control freaks. He’d been marched in the house and plunked down at the kitchen table. Trent, or at least he thought it was Trent, had put sandwiches and a bowl of matzoh ball soup in front of him, commenting that it was light comfort food. Comfort food was pizza and burgers with a bottle of beer, not exotic soups. Somehow Luke had made it through dinner. He really didn’t remember it clearly, but he did remember being put to bed. Tilden had hustled him through the nightly rituals as if he were six: showered, teeth brushed, and tucked in before ten. Tilden had left him with a chaste kiss on the forehead and firmly shut the door. Rules and no sex, Luke thought, I hope it doesn’t stay that way, or this will be six months of hell.

Abandoning the pretense of sleep, Luke tiptoed into the kitchen. He was hungry now. He opened a few doors in the unfamiliar kitchen before discovering the pantry stacked high with dried beans, pasta, canned tomatoes, and at least four varieties of rice. Two entire shelves were dedicated to spices. Finally in a far corner, nearly hidden behind containers of unrecognizable grains, he found a bag of barbecue potato chips and a six pack of soda. Luke looked at the rows of identical cabinets and decided it was too much trouble to search for a glass. He popped the top and took a long swig of warm Coke.

He’d been given a tour of the house yesterday. He didn’t remember the layout, but he thought down the hall near the main stairs was a room with a TV. With only one wrong turn, he found the television. It was a small flat screen dwarfed by the high ceilings and oversized couches clustered around the hearth. Luke flipped on the TV and idled through the channels dominated by infomercials selling fabulous supplements and amazing fitness equipment. For a fleeting moment, he thought about the wonder drug purported to improve short term memory by fifty percent. Maybe it could get him through Russian. Somehow he didn’t think squeaking by with a low C or a high D was going to be adequate now that he was living with the teacher. Bored with the infomercials, he searched for other entertainment. A few movies were stacked under the TV, and he randomly chose one. A statue of a heroic worker and peasant appeared on the screen above the word Mosfilm. Shit, this movie’s in Russian, he thought. He scanned the titles of the remaining films, not one in English. Luke flopped down close to the TV. If he had to read the movie, at least he could be close enough to see the subtitles. 

Luke was munching his way through the potato chips when a hand came around his back and snagged the bag and the can of soda.

“In this house, we don’t eat potato chips for breakfast.”

Luke swung around, surprised; he hadn’t heard footsteps. Trent was standing over him, folding the bag of chips. His gray eyes were unreadable. 

“Am I in trouble?” God, why had he asked that. He felt like a kid in pajamas, sneaking the early morning cartoons.

“Not unless you make a habit of it, or Tilden lays down the law about midnight wanderings.  You couldn’t sleep, kid? I’m not surprised. Come on, you can help me make the sweet rolls, and I’ll get you an early breakfast.” Trent held out his hand, and pulled Luke off the floor.

Luke followed behind sheepishly. He was left standing at a massive granite counter while Trent pawed through the refrigerator.

“Grapefruit OK?”

“Yeah.”

“The fruit knife is in the drawer to your right. Just cut it in half and section it; I’ll eat the other half.”

Luke cut the fruit in half. It wasn’t a perfect half, but it would do. He’d seen others run the knife around the fruit making neat sections that spooned out. Luke could never make it work. It was just one more thing he wasn’t good at. He wasn’t good at much except getting himself into disasters. The show had been a lark; he wasn’t supposed to be picked and end up at a house with grapefruit and separate beds. Luke hacked at the fruit with the knife, only succeeding in scoring holes in the peel. He tried to dislodge a piece with his spoon, but it remained stubbornly attached.

“Here, let me show you.” Trent was standing beside Luke holding a fresh grapefruit and a serrated knife with a thin, whippy blade. “You used the wrong knife.” Trent started the fruit and then handed it to Luke. “Why don’t you finish it.”

“Thanks,” Luke muttered, his cheeks reddening.

Trent touched Luke’s back before he turned toward the refrigerator. “There’s no need to be embarrassed. I cook for a living and know all the secrets. When you finish with that grapefruit, cut two more for everyone else. Actually cut three. We’ll feed the camera crew; it should make them more pliable. You’ll be an expert before seven in the morning.”

Luke gritted his teeth and prepared the grapefruit. 

Trent picked up a finished fruit and removed a spooned out a section with a flourish. “Good job.”

“I’m not a kindergartener. You don’t have to make me feel good about my work.”

Luke was cut off by a sharp, “Be quiet. You don’t want to go any farther down that path, or I’ll have to wake Tilden. That’s right. Take a deep breath. Tops are going to praise as well as punish. Come help me make the cinnamon rolls.”

Luke started to reply but was silenced by the expression on Trent’s face. He looked down at the counter and forced himself to be silent.

“Good choice.”

Luke felt his face get hotter. He hardly knew this man, but he was pleased by the praise. “I don’t know how to bake.”

“I figured that. I’ll show you. Tilden can hardly reheat something without burning it. He would’ve starved if I hadn’t moved in.” Trent didn’t say much as he taught Luke to knead the dough and roll it into the correct shape before setting it aside under a tea towel to rise again. “These won’t be ready for over an hour. Do you want some cinnamon toast while we wait?”

Luke stood at the counter and ran his fingers through the flour scattered over its surface.

“Does your silence mean yes?”

Luke nodded, keeping his eyes down.

Trent set a slice of oatmeal bread coated with cinnamon sugar on the table and pulled out two chairs. “Come sit down and eat.”

Luke slipped into the chair and took a bite of toast. Perhaps the faster he ate the less Trent would stare at him. He couldn’t do this. This had been a mistake. He wanted to go back to his dorm room where no one scolded him for eating potato chips or patiently taught him to cut grapefruit.

Trent reached forward and brushed the hair off Luke’s forehead. “Stop brooding. We’ve got you, and we’ll make this work if that’s what you want.”

Luke looked up, surprised.

“I’ve got my own partner. You can’t think that loud in front of me; it shows. Finish your toast, then you can help me with the rest of breakfast. It’ll keep you out of trouble.”

Trent kept Luke busy chopping vegetables, beating eggs, and greasing pans. Luke barely noticed the camera crew slip in a little after six, and Mace came down the stairs shortly before seven, hair still damp from the shower.

“No wonder you didn’t wake me. You found yourself another kitchen slave.” Mace looped his arms around Trent who kissed him solidly.

“Take over from Luke, so he can shower and get dressed. Go on now.” Trent patted Luke on the shoulder. “By the time you get out of the shower Tilden will be up.” 

 

 

Luke stared at his meager collection of clothes and chose a pair of jeans and a forest green turtleneck. He combed the tangles out of his hair and blew it dry. Soon his hair was tidy, and he could find no more excuse to hide in his room.

The kitchen was full. Mace was icing the final batch of rolls, and Trent pulled an egg casserole from the oven. Sheldon was bouncing from place to place, ostensibly helping but more in the way than anything else.

Tilden set the last plate on the table and waved at Luke. “Come on in. Did you just get up?”

Luke was saved from answering by Trent’s quiet voice. “No, I found him by the TV at five this morning. You might want to keep him in your room if you don’t want him falling asleep in class. I sure wouldn’t give him any caffeine today. Without it, you might get him down for a nap.”

Luke froze in the door. He’d thought he’d known what a top and brat relationship was about—an occasional spanking, perhaps some enforced studying, or a curfew. He hadn’t expected a top to micromanage his eating habits. He hadn’t expected to be tossed into an established family. He was twenty; he’d thought this was about sex. He didn’t do family; he didn’t know how.

“Stop standing around like you’re waiting to be bronzed into a statue,” Sheldon said. “Weekend breakfast is a family meal; we’ve all got to have it together.” Sheldon rolled his eyes dramatically. “I’m going to fade away if you don’t get in here.”

“Sheldon, sit down and behave,” Milton scolded.

“Don’t mind him,” Mace piped up from the stove and gave Luke a slow smile. “He’s always a bit crazy; it keeps the heat off the rest of us.”

Before Luke could retreat, Tilden snagged his wrist and tugged him over to the table. “Sit down and have breakfast. We won’t eat you alive; I promise.”

Luke’s head was spinning and starting to pound. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and groped for a sweet roll. 

Tilden reached over and squeezed his shoulder before getting up and opening a cabinet over the sink. “Aspirin, Tylenol, or ibuprofen?”

“What?” Luke asked.

“You look like you have a raging headache. Which potion works best for you?”

“Aspirin.” Luke swallowed the two aspirins and the glass of water placed before him without complaint.  As the conversation shifted toward the upcoming presidential elections, Luke relaxed and ate two helpings of everything. Trent tried to offer him a third helping, but Luke covered his plate with his hand. “No more.” He’d managed to survive breakfast with no one threatening to spank him or asking revealing questions.

“Your headache better?” Tilden asked.

“Yes, thank you.” Luke surprised himself with his own politeness. If his dad had asked, he would have shrugged and muttered some non-reply.

“Let’s go to my study and have a chat.” Tilden looped his arm around Luke, not giving him a chance to escape.

From the far side of the table, Sheldon catcalled, “To your doom already, boy.” Luke heard a hard swat and a muttered “Ouch.” Luke couldn’t hear what Milton said to Sheldon, but he heard the mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

Tilden kept his arm around Luke as he entered the study. He sat down on the sofa, drawing Luke down with him. “Don’t let Sheldon bother you; he’s just excited. You’re not in any trouble, but I’m concerned about you roaming about the house in the middle of the night. Do you usually have trouble sleeping?”

“I don’t usually go to bed at ten. I’m not a kid.”

“Watch your tone with me.” Tilden’s voice was firm.

“Well, what can I do? There’re instructions for everything. Don’t use that tone. Watch your language. Eat this. Don’t eat that. Sleep here. Are you going to dictate what I wear?”

Tilden snapped his fingers. “Corner. Over there by the bookshelves.” The room had no blank walls, so he pointed Luke to a corner of two bookcases. 

“What’d I do?”

“Luka, you are many things, but dumb you’re not. Stand in the corner and think about it. I’m sure you will come up with the solution. Now go. For each minute you stay on the sofa, I’ll add five minutes of corner time.”

Luke got up from the sofa and shook his head in disbelief. He felt like an idiot standing in the corner. The camera crew had to be getting a good laugh out of this—college boy stands in corner like a naughty toddler. Luke tried to read the titles of the books, but he was standing too close. He turned his head to glance at the books on a more distant shelf.”

“Eyes front,” Tilden barked.

Luke clinched his fist and shifted his weight from side to side. His back was suddenly itchy. He squirmed, thinking of scratching it against the shelves.

“Be still. This isn’t exotic dance practice.”

“My back itches.” Luke could hear the whine in his own voice.

Tilden seemed to have ignored the complaint. Luke could hear shuffling of papers, a sigh, and then footsteps directly behind him.

“Put your hands on top of your head. Lace your fingers together.” Tilden’s voice was soft. Luke complied, unsure what else to do with Tilden directly behind him. “Good. Now try to hear the wind chimes outside. This is an old house. If you concentrate, you can hear them even when the windows are shut. Tell me when you hear them.”

Luke squirmed. It was uncomfortable having his hands on his head. All he could hear was the throb of the central heating. He felt Tilden place a hand on Luke’s shoulder and softly blow against the back of his neck. His breath was warm against his hair. 

Very slowly with a single finger Tilden stroked the back of Luke’s neck. “Feel the sounds of the house. Don’t fight it.” The words were whispered in an eerily slow cadence.

Luke could feel his breathing slowing, matching the rhythm of the stroking. He listened for the sound of the chimes. He heard the clank of dishes against the sink and the sound of water running, then a quiet thump—probably the automatic ice maker in the refrigerator. The faintest tinkle floated through the walls of the house. “I hear them.”

“Good boy.” Tilden kept his hand on Luke’s neck. “Come sit with me.”

Luke turned, surprised to see that only ten minutes had passed. He thought he’d been in the corner for at least thirty minutes. 

Tilden sat down and pulled Luke into his lap. His hand was now firm behind the young man’s neck as he bent down and kissed him on the lips. Luke melted, opened his mouth against Tilden’s onslaught, and welcomed the invading tongue. Tilden spread his fingers through Luke’s thick hair and kissed again. Tilden reached down, tugged the bottom of Luke’s shirt from his pants, and ran his hand up the boy’s chest. Luke shivered at the touch. Abruptly Tilden stopped and placed both hands on Luke’s shoulders. “Do I have your attention now?”

“Don’t stop.” Luke arched against Tilden, trying to goad Tilden into touching him again.

“No, talk now—fun later. You’re mine, Luka, and I will make you feel good, but you will do things my way. Don’t ever doubt that you’re mine.” Tilden traced his finger over Luke’s lips.

Luke groaned. “How can you stop now?”

“I’m not twenty anymore. I’ve got a bit more self-control. It’s one of the few benefits of getting older.”

“You’re mean.”

“Probably. You haven’t seen anything yet. Now sit up and listen.” Tilden bent forward and whispered in Luke’s ear. “We have company with cameras. Public sex really isn’t my thing.”

Luke’s eyes got wide. He’d forgotten about the damn camera men. “Shit! I forgot about them.”

“The bedroom’s off limits to the vultures, but we need to talk about rules.”

“That’s no fun,” Luke pouted.

“Go get the notebooks on my desk.” Tilden gave Luke a small shove in the right direction.

“This sounds like schoolwork. I hate schoolwork.”

“That’s one of the things we have to talk about. Do you want the red or blue one?”

“Blue. It matches my eyes,” Luke said, fluttering his eyelashes provocatively.

“Give me the red one. Turn to the first page. I want you to write down what you think a power exchange relationship involves. Then on the second page, I want you to write what you want this relationship to look like and on page three ten rules for this relationship.”

“This is homework. What are you going to do? Watch me write?”

“No, I’m going to do the same thing. Now get started. The quicker we get this done, the sooner the fun starts.” Tilden tousled Luke’s hair before he pushed his brat toward the desk.

Tilden wrote quickly; his small, precise cursive filled the first page after only a few minutes. Luke had managed only three lines when Tilden turned the page and started on a new sheet. Luke flipped through the pages of the notebook, sniffing the new paper smell. He shivered, remembering the feeling of dread as each new high school year started. His father’s loud and boorish complaints that he paid for the finest private education and his son frivolously wasted the resources. Luke drew pictures in the margin and played tic-tac-toe with himself. He flipped his pen in the air and caught it between his fingers without looking. He tried for multiple rotations and missed at three. The pen bounced on the desk and rolled onto the floor. 

“Luka, try writing with it,” Tilden said. “The longer it takes to get started, the longer it will take to finish.”

“I’m no good at this. I can’t do it.” Luke slammed the cover of the notebook shut and got up.

“Corner.”

“What? I was just in the corner.”

“Corner.” Tilden’s eyes bored into Luke; the friendly crinkles around the corners were gone.

“This isn’t fair. I don’t want to stand in the corner.” Luke couldn’t keep the whine out of his voice.

“Luka, corner.”

“It’s that the only word you know? I thought you were fluent in multiple languages.” Luke’s rant was cut off by a hard swat. “That hurt.” Tilden stood behind him, rock solid, unmoving. “I’ll just get in the corner.”

“Thank you.”

Luke laced his fingers over his head and stared at the bookshelves. This was boring—worse than writing in that damn notebook. If Tilden was this obstinate about his little projects, what was going to happen when he found out that he was on a one way express toward academic probation? He hadn’t even started that blasted paper for history, and an outline was due Monday. How many swats would he get for that? Luke shuddered—one had been bad enough. He’d thought this was mostly about fun, teasing the dominant and a few pops on the rear. Luke thought he’d wanted to be spanked. He’d imagined it enough. He’d messed around with it with Mike, but they were both submissives, and all efforts at spanking had dissolved into fits of giggles and quick sex. Had he been crazy to want this type of relationship? It wasn’t as fun as he’d imagined. Tilden hadn’t hurt him, but he was serious about all this.  Luke fidgeted, wishing he’d just written something in that damn notebook.

Two soft raps on the door interrupted his swaying from foot to foot. Luke turned around to see who was at the door.

“Luka, turn back around.” Tilden’s voice was sure; disobedience was not expected and wouldn’t be tolerated. Luke turned back, but not before Milton’s glare from the doorway left scorch marks across his brain.

Luke could hear a whispered conversation behind him, but he couldn’t make out most of the words. He heard something about a phone call, and then the sound of the door closing. Luke took a quick peek over his shoulder. Milton was leaning against the sofa, arms crossed, gazing at Luke as if he were a Roman general surveying his ground forces. Milton flicked his eyes toward the corner, and Luke turned around, resigned. Luke wanted to lean against the wall; his arms and shoulders were beginning to ache. There was no hope that Milton would let him out of the corner. By his stare, it was clear that he thought Luke was only slightly higher on the evolutionary scale than a cockroach. 

Luke was surprised to hear a soft rumble of a voice behind him; the tone was not unsympathetic. “Do your arms hurt?”

Luke nodded. He hadn’t thought he was unfit, but his shoulders were killing him.

“You might try yes, sir or no, sir when you’re standing in a corner and a top’s speaking to you. It’s more likely to get the desired results.”

Luke couldn’t help but glance around. Was Milton being serious, or was he toying with him? 

Milton clicked his tongue and pointed back at the corner. “You need to stay put.”

“Ugh,” Luke groaned but turned back around. He was stuck now; he’d blown the opportunity to get his hands off his head. He’d always been good at digging himself in deeper. Milton must have moved closer when Luke was berating himself for his stupidity because when he spoke again his voice was nearly in Luke’s ear.

“Now think before you answer this question. Would you like to take your hands off your head?”

Fuck, of course he would and all he’d have to do is choke out a small yes, sir, and Milton would let him put his arms down. But Luke couldn’t stop himself; he blurted out, “No, I like standing with my hands on top of my head playing some fucked-up version of Simon Says.”

The swat was hard and instantaneous. “I guess we’re doing this the hard way.”   

Was Tilden ever going to get off the phone? He wanted out of this corner, but there was no damn way that Milton was going to let him out. Not after the smart comment he’d let fly. Luke heard the door open behind him.

“Still in the corner.” Luke heard Tilden say to Milton.

“I gave him a chance, but he made the wrong choice.”

Luke felt himself turn red from his collar to the top of his head. If one of the tops hadn’t put a hand on his shoulder, he would’ve spun around with a nasty retort.

“Don’t make it worse.” Luke thought that was Milton’s voice, but he wasn’t sure. The hand on his shoulder was sympathetic, as it kneaded Luke’s tight muscles. 

“Luka, put your hands down, but stay facing the corner.” That was Tilden. He was the only one who Russified his name. “Can you behave, now?”

Luke swallowed hard. He’d almost made a smart comment. “Yes, sir,” he ground out, blushing redder. 

“ _Maladets_. Come sit down.” _Maladets_ that ubiquitous word of praise earned for correct answers in Russian class brought a small smile to Luke’s face that he was not quick enough to hide. 

Milton ruffled Luke’s hair as he released his shoulder. “You know, we’re not trying to make it hard for you.” 

Tilden captured Luke and pulled him down on the sofa. “I’ve got you, Luka. I know you feel like you’re drowning, but we won’t let you. While you may not appreciate it yet, you have three tops watching your back.”

Luke smiled ruefully. “Don’t I know. I guess I should’ve listened when I was told to look before you leap.”

“You won’t have to worry about that propensity any longer. With three tops, one of us will always be happy to interfere. We tend to be bossy.” Tilden kissed Luke firmly on the forehead.

“Ugh, I feel like a real heel right now,” Luke said unable to make eye contact with either top.

“Hey, look at me,” Milton demanded.

Luke lifted his eyes slowly, glad that he had Tilden’s arm firmly around his shoulder.

“I’ve seen a lot worse. You didn’t break anything, you didn’t kick me in the shins, and you didn’t bite me. Thinking you want to be a submissive is very different from being a submissive. We’ll try to start easy, but it will still be a shock. Being a submissive is more than a pink butt over a top’s knee or a night at the club. We practice a form of submission that requires few of the trappings you might see in a club and to the outsider can appear suffocating.”

Milton’s unexpected generosity and sympathy made Luke feel more guilty, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “I haven’t started the paper yet.”

Milton had assigned a ten thousand word paper as one-third of the course grade; the remaining two-thirds were the midterm and final exam. On Monday the students were supposed to turn in a topic, a preliminary bibliography, a summary paragraph, and a detailed outline.

“I assumed as much. Have you chosen a topic?” Milton asked.

Luke hung his head, but said nothing.

“I take that as a no. Tilden, do you have anything planned for your wee young man this weekend?”

“We need to collect his things from his dorm room, and he needs to have a chat with the dean.”

Luke’s head shot up. “About what?”

“You’re not in trouble,” Tilden said. “I just got off the phone with her. It’s college policy that professors don’t date their students. It’s considered sexual harassment. I previously had informed the dean of students that I was participating in the show, and last night I sent her an email that I was matched with one of my students.” Tilden paused and tousled Luke’s hair. “Don’t look so worried. You picked me. I didn’t coerce you or offer grades for sexual favors. It’s just awkward for the PC folk. Milton and I might have to get your work evaluated by a third party to prevent the appearance of impropriety, but that’s it.”

“I didn’t mean to get you in trouble at work. I’m sorry. I...”

“Hush,” Tilden said before Luke could go any further. “I’m not in trouble, and even if I were, I’d resign before I let go of you.”

Luke searched Tilden’s face, trying to tell if he was being honest. “You really mean that?”

“Yes, I think you’re adorable. I’ve wanted to put my arms around you since the first day I saw you. Countless times I wanted to act like a top when you tossed out those smart comments in class.”

Luke snuggled closer. “You did a little bit. I always felt safe with you even when you were verbally tearing a strip off me for not doing my work.”

“If you two are finished with this love fest, Luke needs to go work on his paper,” Milton said from the far side of the room. “Go upstairs to my study. It’s the first door on your right off the landing. Look through the books and find a topic. You have thirty minutes.”

“Go on,” Tilden gave Luke a shove towards the door.

 

****

 

Milton waited for the echo of footsteps on the stairs before he walked over and shut the door. “I know that boy’s adorable, but he’s going to take a firm hand. Why’d you put him in the corner earlier?”

“I wanted him to write down his ideas for rules and what he wanted from this relationship, and he had a meltdown over it.”

“Ah, stop trying to be nice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Right now Luke doesn’t know which way’s up. Just lay down the law, and tell him that’s the way it is. It’ll save significant trouble in the long run, and you’ll both be happier. I know you’ve seen me negotiate with Sheldon, but Sheldon is savvy about his role as a submissive, and the negotiations are still a near death experience.  After a month or two you can revisit the rules if changes need to be made.”

“That seems—draconian.”

“Trust me,” Milton said and smiled at his friend. “I’ve done this before. You saw how much happier he was when I laid down the law about doing the paper. I know it’s against everything I’m supposed to teach about these relationships, but Luke isn’t a boy you’re playing with for a night. This is an arranged marriage; Luke will have different needs.”

Tilden nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. “He’s going to be the death of me. I can see it now.”

“Nobody ever said being a dominant was easy. Talking about difficulties, what’s going on with the college about this little turn of events?”

Tilden grimaced. “I have to meet with the dean of students, the dean of men, and the president of the college in thirty minutes. They want to see Luke after that.”

“Hey, keep your chin up. They’ll be thrilled to have one less student on academic probation. I’ll get Luke there. It’ll be fine.”

“I wish I could be that optimistic.”

“Part of being a dominant is projecting success even when all obstacles are aligned against you, you know that. You’re a great top. Don’t doubt yourself.” Milton squeezed Tilden’s shoulder.

“Yes, sir and thanks.” Tilden lifted two fingers in a sloppy salute.

“Quit goofing off. You’ll have them eating out of your hand by the time you’re done. Make sure you tell them about Luke’s roommate.”

“What?”

“Don’t give me that innocent, surprised look. You know as well as I do that he’s spinning. We’re the only ones around to pick up the pieces.”

Tilden gave Milton a baleful stare before he left the study.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tilden encounters opposition and friendship at the college.

**Meet Your Mate**

**Chapter 4**

 

The college president’s house was in a secluded corner of campus, surrounded by towering oaks and maples. Tilden climbed the steps to the white clapboard house and straightened his tie before he rang the bell. He’d dressed in khakis and a blazer. Best to be on the conservative side when being interrogated by the big cheese. He’d been in the president’s house many times for the opening of the year faculty gathering and fundraising functions, but he’d never been invited for a private audience.

The doorbell was answered almost immediately by Nancy Groat, who had made a feeble attempt at more casual wear for a Saturday meeting. She was wearing navy pants and a pinstripe shirt without a jacket. Her expression was severe; her lips pinched together in a hard line.

“Come in, Tilden. Everyone’s in the dining room.” 

The dining room was dominated by a circular walnut table and a matching sideboard.  A heavy lead decanter filled with amber liquid rested on the sideboard. The chandelier centered over the table was ponderous crystal. The overall effect was cold and formal. Tilden squared his shoulders and prepared for the interrogation.

Tilden observed the faces around the table, curious to see who was selected to spend Saturday interrogating a fellow faculty member. At the far side of the table was the college president, Emily Weathers-Simpson, and her husband. Next to her was Jeremiah Tyler, an enormous dark skinned man who was dean of men and taught an occasional course in physics. Tilden’s department head, Samantha Roth, was opposite Tyler, and next to her was a young woman who Tilden thought worked in the student health services. Tilden couldn’t consider any of these people his allies. The president he remembered as gracious the few times they’d met, and his department head he would consider fair, but he hardly imagined that she was a practitioner of the more exotic domestic relationships. He’d met her husband at numerous departmental functions, and he couldn’t imagine a more vanilla couple. Tilden remembered their startled look the year that he’d hosted the Christmas party, and they’d met the couples in his household. They’d been resolutely polite, clearly trying to be open minded, but Tilden was sure their bedroom conversation that evening had been interesting. Tyler was an unknown quantity; Tilden had seen him around campus, but he didn’t socialize much with the math and science folks.

President Weathers-Simpson stood and welcomed Tilden into the room. “Tilden, thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m sure you have many pressing concerns at home with the sudden change to your household. We’ll try to make this meeting brief. Would you care for some coffee?”

“Yes, thank you—black, no sugar. I hope I can allay your concerns and fears.” Tilden politely nodded at the circle of people around the table before he sat down and took a sip of coffee.

Weathers-Simpson continued, “I’ve asked my husband to participate in this meeting since as a physician he has received some additional training in...” She hesitated, clearly searching for the correct phrase. “More unusual domestic relationships. Tilden, is his presence a problem for you, since he has no official capacity with the college?”

Tilden smiled, trying to allay the tension he could sense around the table. “I have no problem with him remaining, as long as my colleagues are in agreement.” There were nods around the table.

“I’m going to give the floor to Nancy as she was the administrator initially informed of your decision to participate in this television show.” 

Nancy carefully set her coffee cup in the saucer before she started speaking. “Tilden, you are aware of the college’s policy against sexual relationships or romantic fraternization between staff and students?”

“Yes.” Tilden tried to continue but Nancy refused to yield the floor.

“Taking Luke Griffith as your partner can only be seen as a direct violation of that policy. I think the only appropriate course of action would be for you to resign or to immediately separate Luke from your household.”

“My resignation papers will be on my department head’s desk by this afternoon if that is the consensus of this group.” Tilden held himself ramrod straight and kept his voice steady. He’d not expected this, but he wasn’t going to abandon Luke. A violation of trust between a dominant and a young and insecure submissive of that magnitude could be devastating for Luke.

“Let’s not be hasty.” The president’s voice was sharp and crisp. “I invited Tilden here to insure Luke’s interests were being protected, not to condemn a faculty member for a relationship that I don’t fully understand.”

“Relationships with students are inherently unequal and lead to a violation of the student’s rights,” Nancy retorted.

“Even the most accepted generalities don’t always illuminate the truth once specific cases are involved,” Weathers-Simpson said blandly. “My understanding of this reality program’s format is that the tops are kept in the dark about the identity of their prospective partners until the selections are made. If this is the case, I don’t believe that Tilden coerced Luke into a relationship. Tilden were you aware of Luke’s participation in the show prior to the matching?”

“No.”

“Had you made any suggestions of a more personal relationship with him prior to your appearance on the show?” 

“Absolutely not. I tutored him privately several times, but our relationship was strictly academic. I was aware that both he and his roommate were submissives or brats as the show prefers, any good top would have been, but I was extremely careful not to assume the role of a dominant. It wasn’t my right until Luke demanded it by selecting me on the show. I would have considered it a gross overstepping of my boundaries as a professor.”

“Are you telling me that you had no attraction to this young man until he selected you on a television show?” Nancy’s voice dripped skepticism.  

“No, I’m telling you I didn’t act on my attraction. I’m a top; I’m genetically programmed to notice a spinning brat. I can’t turn that part off when I teach; I merely refrain from acting on it.” Tilden could tell that his argument was not moving Nancy from her position, but he thought at least a few of his other colleagues seemed to be sympathetic.

“Tilden’s assessment of a top’s motivation is the conventional medical explanation for a power exchange relationship,” Dr. Weathers-Simpson said. “The American Psychiatric Association considers dominant and submissive and all their possible permutations a normal variant of domestic relationships for either homosexual or heterosexual couples. Current medical thinking is that there is a strong genetic predisposition to be either a dominant or a submissive and that all people fall within this spectrum, but those at the more extreme ends are happier and more satisfied in a power exchange relationship. A brat, as the show is describing, is only one expression of submissive tendencies. They are most often young submissives who look toward older men for guidance and leadership as well as the more intimate side of submissiveness. A brat may outgrow the need for general guidance, or it may mutate into a more distinct role play, but he or she will not outgrow the desire to be the submissive partner.”

“I agree with Dr. Weather-Simpson’s opinion.” Tilden looked around to see who was speaking; it was the young woman from the student health services. “Last year we introduced a new support group for submissives. I would like to see Luke attend. Tops are rarer in the population and are more obstinate about group sessions. We would be delighted if Tilden or one of his housemates would participate in these sessions. We hate that many of our submissives’ only knowledge of tops is from reality television and Hollywood.”

“I’m sure Milton or I could attend. Trent might also be able to attend if the top doesn’t need to be a member of the college community.”

“We would be delighted if any of you three could make it.”

“Your commitment to help the student health services is commendable, but we are here to discuss Luke,” President Weathers-Simpson interrupted smoothly. “Jeremiah, as dean of men, do you have anything to add or any questions for Tilden?”

Jeremiah’s voice was deep and rumbling, befitting his great size. “I’m a member of the older generation where these matters were not discussed openly. I’ve never shared this with my colleagues at this college, but I think now is the time. I’m a submissive with strong leanings toward the brat side of the spectrum. At this table I think I can most respect Luke’s needs, except of course for his top, Tilden.”

Tilden heard a gasp from the collected group as they digested this information. The president’s gaze didn’t even flicker; maybe deadpan expressions and effective techniques for countering shock were required knowledge for upper level administrators. Nancy looked appalled, even though she tried to hide her reaction by pouring more coffee and offering it to her colleagues.

Jeremiah continued after he paused to let his revelation sink in. “I don’t know Tilden well personally as our paths have infrequently crossed, but as the dean of men I’m aware that Tilden is particularly concerned about the welfare of his students. He always alerts me early to any potential academic difficulty. I received a note on Luke’s difficulties along with Mike Stoller’s, his roommate, in Russian within three weeks of the start of class. It was mostly a heads up and a request that I have them consult with their advisor. Unfortunately neither student followed up on the advice. I have more personal familiarity with Tilden’s housemate, Milton Brown. Milton has been aware of my orientation from an involvement in a private club outside this college and predating his arrival here. He has always been discreet with that knowledge; I don’t believe he even told his housemates. Milton and I co-advised a student whose major was a combination of religion, science, and history. I believe, if memory serves, the student wrote a senior thesis on the effects of religious persecution on scientific discovery. That student’s major was a bureaucratic nightmare. I was at loggerheads with the head of the religion department.”

There was a collective chuckle around the table from the faculty who remembered the irascible head of religion, a tiny white-haired man, elfish in appearance, who with just a few words could send the entire humanities faculty running for cover.

“I can remember becoming frustrated with the red tape,” Jeremiah continued. “Milton was listening to me rant when he quietly took the offending paperwork off my desk and said he would deal with that part and for me to focus on selecting the science courses.  We never spoke of it again, but I have a deep respect for Milton as a colleague and as a friend. The fact that Milton has chosen to cohabit with Tilden for many years is a ringing endorsement of Tilden’s integrity and kindness. I think no award or recognition could speak more highly of Tilden than Milton’s unreserved support. I’m confident there is no impropriety in his relationship with any student and that Luke will be supported and nurtured. My concern is Mike.”

Tilden heard a couple of sharp “why’s” around the table.

Jeremiah glanced at Tilden before continuing. “I saw you nod. I believe you are in agreement with me.”

“Yes, Mike’s lost what little support structure he had. To be honest, I’m afraid that he’s going to end up at our house sooner rather than later.”

“Good.” Jeremiah smiled. “I didn’t think it was fair to leave him out there drifting.”

Nancy snorted. “You want me to sanction not one but two relationships between a faculty member and a student? I thought this was college, not a vaudeville act.”

“I know this is most irregular,” Tilden said, trying to placate the concern he could sense from several individuals around the table. “Two partners wouldn’t be my first choice, but I may have no choice in the matter. Luke and Mike were already lovers.” It wouldn’t have been Tilden’s choice at all forty-eight hours ago. He knew threesomes weren’t unheard of, but he didn’t have a single partner. He hadn’t contemplated two, especially two whom he hardly knew.

“And you know this how?” Dr. Weathers-Simpson interrupted. 

“Mike told Milton. Unfortunately Luke and Mike may be a packaged deal. It’s going to make the whole thing more complicated for everybody,” Tilden said with a sigh.

“We’re not talking lunchmeat here; we’re talking about young men’s lives,” Nancy said and pressed her lips into a tight, firm line.

“I’m well aware of the potential pitfalls,” Tilden said calmly.

“I’m not personally familiar with these relationships, but my understanding is that they frequently include corporal punishment,” the college president said. “Do you foresee using corporal punishment with your brat or brats? Brat is the correct term, isn’t it?”

“Yes, they can be referred to as brats or simply as submissives. Brat is a term of endearment, not derogatory. And I plan on using corporal punishment with Luke. I don’t like to spank, but I suspect Luke is going to force my hand more than once.” 

A few people around the table laughed at the unintentional pun.

“I’ll be frank with you, Tilden,” the president said. “I don’t understand these relationships, and I can’t fathom participating in a relationship where one partner wields physical discipline, but as an academic I feel it is important to keep an open mind. If I understand my experts correctly, these types of relationships aren’t inherently harmful and are potentially beneficial.” The president’s glance encompassed the two health professionals and Jeremiah. “I have several conditions that I would like to place on this relationship, and since this college does assume the role of _loco parentis,_ I feel these restrictions can be legally justified. Luke will speak to either a health professional or Jeremiah weekly.” Weathers-Simpson turned towards Jeremiah. “I assume you would be willing to act as a neutral observer?”

Jeremiah glanced at Tilden, who nodded his agreement. “I would be happy to speak to our young men, but I’m sure they’ll be quite safe with Tilden.”

“Tilden, while I think this warning is quite unnecessary if there is ever any sign of physical or mental abuse, this college and I personally will make sure that you are prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

“I understand your concern and thank you for your confidence. I assure you that I will take good care of Luke.”

“I trust you will.” Weather-Simpson gave a neutral smile and indicated with a nod of her head that the meeting was over. 

Tilden stepped out onto the porch; he could see Luke and Milton coming across the walk toward him. Even from the distance, Luke looked nervous, and Milton had his arm tightly around the young man’s shoulders, offering reassurance but also preventing escape. Luke looked like he was blinking back tears as he climbed the steps. Milton mouthed over Luke’s head that the young man was scared to death and released Luke into Tilden’s arms.

“It’s OK, _druzhok_. They’re going to ask a few questions; I don’t think they’re planning to use thumb screws, and I know President Weathers-Simpson doesn’t have a rack.” Tilden hugged Luke tightly. “I’ve got you. Now, go talk to the big, scary administrators. It’s not too many freshman who get to have coffee with the college president.”

“Great, I’d rather not have the privilege,” Luke said and buried his face in Tilden’s chest.

“Go on. The more you think about it; the worse it gets.” Tilden peeled Luke’s arms off him and walked him to the door. “I’ll escort you inside, but they’ll want to talk to you alone.”

Tilden walked into the president’s dining room for the second time this morning. Luke had a firm grip on his hand, but his head was up, and his eyes were free of tears. “I think you all know Luke Griffith,” Tilden said to the assembled deans and faculty. He then addressed Luke directly. “I’ll be outside. _Ne pukha ne pera.”_

“What?” 

“I’ll tell you later, but the correct answer is _k chertu,_ to the devil.” Tilden squeezed Luke’s shoulder and quickly left. He hoped the distraction with the Russian phrase would keep Luke together through the interview. Jeremiah had pulled out a chair next to him and invited Luke to sit beside him. Tilden saw Jeremiah reach under the table and squeeze Luke’s knee and whisper something in his ear. Whatever he’d said had made Luke smile.

Milton was waiting on the porch when Tilden stepped out. “Luke holding it together so far?”

“So far. Jeremiah Tyler is protecting him from the wolves, and I think the college president will also.”

“Ah, so you know.” Milton smiled knowingly.

“Yes, he announced it to everyone. He thinks you walk on water.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Modesty is not one of your virtues.” Tilden playfully punched Milton in the arm. “Oh, to have your confidence.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” 

“So did you get Luke’s stuff together?”

“Oh, I see. Change the subject. The short answer is no. The long answer is we should call the health department on their dorm room.”

“That bad?”

“I don’t think either boy has done his laundry since the start of the year. Mike was still in bed when we got there. I roused him, chased him into the shower, and got him dressed. I’ve left him cleaning the room; I hope. Everything went OK in the meeting?”

“Nancy’s none too happy, but I think everyone else is onboard. I hope they don’t scare Luke out of the whole idea.”

“He’s more resilient than you think.” Both men fell silent, leaning on the porch rail, staring into the distance.

 

*****

 

Luke trotted out of the house, a big smile on his face. “Jeremiah is really nice. I can’t believe the dean of men is like me.”

“I’m glad it went well,” Tilden said.

Milton frowned. “Luke, you need to call Jeremiah Dean Tyler unless you’re in private. It’s not public knowledge that he’s a submissive, so don’t spread it around.”

“Sorry. I won’t. Can I tell Mike?”

“Only if Dean Tyler gives you permission.” Tilden took Luke’s hand and started back toward Luke’s dorm room. “So what did you talk about?”

“They were obsessed with the idea that you somehow coerced or corrupted me. I mean the idea is insane. You two are so correct it hurts. It’s like I moved into a monastery.”

“You’ve been there less than twenty-four hours,” Tilden said.

“Oh, to be young again.” Milton laughed. “What else did you talk about?”

“They asked about Mike. They wanted to know if I thought he was upset that I moved in with you guys. Jer—um—Dean Tyler asked my opinion of a threesome.” Luke stopped and stared at both tops. “You aren’t considering it, are you? That would be way cool. Threesomes are all the rage in New York and LA. He’d love it!”

“Threesomes are very difficult to maintain,” Tilden said somberly. “Remember all the fuss you made about rules this morning. How do you think Mike would handle that kind of thing?”

“You’re considering it!” Luke pulled out of Tilden’s hand and jumped up and down on the path in front of them. “Wait till I tell Mike.”

Tilden grabbed both of Luke’s wrists. “Listen.” He said in a sharp tone. “You don’t say anything to Mike. If it ever happens, we’ll all discuss it together quietly and rationally.”

“You’re a party pooper.” 

“Luke, did you hear what Tilden just said?” Milton barked.

“Uh-huh.” Luke kicked a loose stone with his toe.

“Look at me.” Milton’s voice was razor sharp; it seemed to freeze nature for a split second. “I think we talked this morning about how to respond to a direct question.”

“Yes, sir,” Luke muttered and felt the red flush on his neck and cheeks.

“ _Druzhok_ , that wasn’t that hard, was it?” Tilden asked.

“This is America. Can’t you stay in English?”

“ _Druzhok_ is an endearment.”

“It means little friend,” Milton added with a teasing smile. “He could have called you _golubchik_ which is even worse. It means little pigeon.”

“I couldn’t be an eagle or a condor, instead I’m a filthy pigeon begging for bread crust and pooping on pedestrians’ heads.”

“That’s a little harsh, Luka,” Tilden said, laughing. “ _Druzhok_ means boyfriend. Do you want to know the other Russian phrase I used.”

“Not really.” Luke shrugged. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“You’re not teaching your boy naughty phrases so he can curse and not get in trouble with me, are you?” Milton teased Tilden.

“Of course not. Well, just a little. _K chertu_ does mean to the devil.”

“What?” Luke asked, wide-eyed.

“Oh, so I can get you interested in Russian. The traditional response to good luck is to the devil.”

By the time Tilden had finished discussing the intricacies of phrases using the word devil they had made it to Luke’s dorm room. Luke’s room was on the second floor about halfway down the corridor. A few students in the hall stared at the two professors. Professors in a freshman dorm were an unusual sight. 

Luke pushed opened the door to his room. He usually didn’t notice the empty pizza boxes and dirty clothes strewn on the floor. Didn’t all dorm rooms look like that, but Tilden was staring in wide-eyed amazement at the room. Luke kicked a pile of clothes out of the way as he desperately wished they’d done more tidying. Mike, seemingly unconcerned, was flopped down on the unmade bed, wearing only a pair of shorts and a towel.

“I sent you to the shower over a half hour ago. Why are you still not dressed?” Milton made no effort to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

Mike looked languidly at Milton through half closed eyes. “It’s Saturday. It’s too early to get up.”

“It’s almost noon.” Milton grabbed Mike by his elbow and hoisted him off the bed. “Get dressed.”

“I don’t have any clean clothes.”

“Well, pick something that’s less dirty. I don’t think you want to do your laundry in the bare.” Milton walked over to the dresser and searched through the drawers until he found a crumpled T-shirt. He plucked a pair of sweatpants off a pile on the floor and tossed them to Mike. “Here. Do you know how to do laundry?”

“Of course,” Mike huffed. “What do you think I am?”

“A college freshman,” Milton said. “From the evidence in your room, I assumed that neither of you had mastered the art of using the washing machine.”

“No, it’s Luke who can’t do laundry; he turns everything pink.”

Luke, who had been picking up the trash at Tilden’s insistence, rifled a Chinese takeout container at Mike.

“Boys.” Tilden’s voice cracked across the room. “This room already looks like an E.P.A. Superfund site; let’s not make it worse. Luka, do you have any of your books and clothes together?”

“Yeah, Milton made me get some stuff together earlier.”

Tilden picked up the boxes and the book bag that were stacked against the bed. “Milton and I will take these out to the car. Try to help Mike with this mess. You can’t leave your roommate to clean up this disaster on his own.”

Mike let out a sigh when the two tops disappeared through the door, loaded down with boxes. “Jesus, are they always that bossy?”

“Yep, Milton scares the crap out of me. Tilden seems a little nicer, and I haven’t figured out Trent, the third guy.”

“Have they disciplined you?”

Luke blushed to the roots of his hair.

“Already?” Mike’s eyes were wide.

“Just a few swats and corner time, but that was bad enough. They swat hard.”

“Poor baby boy.” Mike grabbed Luke around the neck and playfully ruffled his hair. “I miss you.”

“Me too.” Luke ran his hands through his untamed locks. “I didn’t know this would be so hard. I know I can be a brat, but all the rules and stuff. They’re trying to be nice, but I feel like I’m in a foreign country. Half the time Tilden babbles at me in Russian.”

“Stop moping about like a girl. Nobody says we still can’t have fun.” Mike grabbed Luke’s head and kissed him deeply on the mouth. He ran his hands seductively down Luke’s back and squeezed his ass.

“Don’t, not here. They’ll kill me.” Luke pushed Mike off and started sorting the clothes on the floor.

“I can’t believe it; they’ve already turned you into a tame boy. They probably got you in bed before ten and studying on Saturday night. Fuck! I loved you.” Mike kicked the pile of clothes that Luke was trying to organize. “I’m not cleaning my room for some stuck-up college profs.”

“Mike, please don’t do this to me.” Luke blinked back the tears that were forming. “I thought you were my friend.”

“Go cry on one of your tops’ shoulders. I’m sure they like it—brings out the nurturing instinct. Brats are supposed to need guidance and nurturing.”

“Fuck you! You’re the one who encouraged this stupid show, and now you’re going to abandon me.”

“You’re the one who’s deserting me. Remember we were going to go to the rush parties tonight.”

“I can’t.”

“They don’t own you. Meet me at Delta Lambda tonight, or you can kiss our friendship good-bye.”

Luke started to reply when he heard the door open.

“You guys didn’t get very far,” Tilden said.

Luke bent down and began to rapidly sort his clothes. He didn’t want Tilden to know about his spat with Mike. Neither he nor Mike talked as they put the room in order. Luke could feel both tops’ eyes on him. There was no way they didn’t recognize the tension in the room. Finally they finished, and Tilden looped his arm around Luke’s shoulders.

“Let’s get you home. You’ve got a paper to work on. I’ll see you in class tomorrow, Misha.”

“Yes, Professor Blake.” 

Luke nearly gagged at the phony sweetness in Mike’s voice. It seemed that Tilden didn’t notice as he simply nodded and escorted Luke out. Tilden was silent until they were out in the relative solitude of the quad.

“Do you want to talk about what’s’ going on between you and Mike?”

“There’s nothing going on.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday. I won’t make you talk about it, but I’m here if you want to.”

Luke blinked; he hadn’t expected Tilden to be sympathetic. He almost wished Tilden would force him to talk. He didn’t want to lose Mike as a friend. If he didn’t go to the party, he’d lose Mike. But if Tilden found out about the party, he didn’t even want to think about the consequences.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first bump in the road.

**Meet Your Mate**

**Chapter 5**

 

Luke had been in bed alone nearly an hour. Tilden had some weird Victorian ritual about courting Luke first, not that Tilden wasn’t sweet and damn good looking in Luke’s mind, but all the talking and everybody else. He was always bumping into someone in this house. He watched the hands of the clock move around the dial. Tilden had handed him a sheet with ten rules on it this afternoon. Tilden might be shy about more than a gentle kiss, but he wasn’t shy about rules and regulations. Sneaking out to a party would be punishable under at least three of the rules and probably more if they were applied in their broadest context. Luke suspected that Tilden would see them in the broadest context. 

Luke slipped out of bed and carried his shoes to the French doors. His room opened into a small fenced courtyard. He’d have to climb the fence, but the wrought iron table would work as an improvised ladder.

The moon was almost full and provided good light. Luke shivered as the wind bit through his sweater. Tilden had insisted on storing Luke’s outerwear in the hall closet. A closet that Luke couldn’t reach without walking in front of Tilden’s bedroom. He scooted the table closer to the fence. It made a grating noise against the patio stones. Luke froze and watched for light to come on in Tilden’s bedroom. Nothing. He took a deep breath and pulled himself over the fence, dropping to the sidewalk below.

 

****

 

Tilden rubbed his eyes and sighed. It was late, past midnight. The papers for his Russian literature class seemed to be self-reproducing. He had only one more to go, a boring, ill-written treatise on Pushkin’s poems. The writer had seemed more interested in Pushkin’s fatal duel than the poetry. He’d forced himself to finish, so he could spend time with Luka tomorrow instead of grading papers. Luke had seemed buoyant after his meeting with the administration, but something had happened when they’d left him alone with Mike. Milton had assured Tilden that young submissives were mercurial, but it didn’t feel right. Luke had been compliant all afternoon and even gone to bed before ten without a fuss.

Tilden gently turned the knob on the spare bedroom’s door and pushed it open. He didn’t want to wake Luke, but Tilden needed to reassure himself all was well. Tilden stared at the bed; it was empty. He flipped on the lights. No sign of the young man in the bathroom, and the door to the patio wasn’t firmly shut. A magazine stuffed in the jam prevented the lock from engaging. Damn that brat, he thought. 

Leaving the lights on, he mounted the stairs and knocked softly on Milton and Sheldon’s bedroom door. Milton was a light sleeper, he’d hear him well before Sheldon.

“What is it?”

Tilden pushed opened the door. “Luke’s gone.”

Milton sat up, the sleep gone from his eyes. “I’ll go look for him; you hold the fort here in case he comes back while we’re gone. Don’t worry. I expect he’s just gone off to a party. He’s probably been planning it all afternoon. That’s why he was so quiet.”

Sheldon stirred as Milton climbed out of bed and threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. 

“What’s wrong?” Sheldon asked sleepily.

“Nothing, Luke’s just gone out for the night. I’m going to go get him.”

“Do you need my help?” Sheldon asked, untangling himself from the sheets.

“Go back to sleep, honey. I’ll get Trent.” 

Trent and Milton left Tilden in the kitchen parked behind a large pot of coffee and a plate of pastries.

“Don’t worry,” Trent said with a slow smile. “We’ll bring your little boy home to face the music.”

Tilden gulped the hot coffee. One day and he’d already lost his brat.

 

****

 

Luke walked into the fraternity house, scanning the packed room for Mike. Even this early, most of the crowd was already awash in beer. Beer flowed freely from kegs just inside the door. Luke was handed two full cups of the frothy liquid before his eyes had adjusted to the blue strobe lighting. He spotted Mike on the far side of the room, chatting with an upperclassman, a fraternity member. Luke pushed his way through the crowd, spilling half of one beer down his shirt front and the other beer on the bare chest of a gyrating dancer. 

“Mike, Mike, I’m here.”

“You made it, Luke. I didn’t think you had the guts,” Mike slurred. “You’re much too sober. Get this man a drink.” Mike swayed against Luke and spilled one of the remaining beers down Luke’s pants. 

“Here.” The upperclassman shoved a rum and Coke into Luke’s hand. “You need something stronger than that mare piss.”

Luke drank two glasses of rum and coke and a glass of a mixed drink that he didn’t recognize, and countless plastic cups of beers. Every time he would set a drink down; someone would hand him a fresh one. He tried dancing, but the room was too packed, and conversation was impossible over the loud music. 

In an alcohol induced haze, Luke found himself on a couch in a dimly lit corner of what he assumed was some kind of common room. Four or five worn sofas, some with springs visible, were scattered throughout the room. A pool table and a battered ping pong table completed the decor. Luke slumped on the sofa, his head supported by Tom, or at least he thought it was Tom. He’d been introduced as the pledge master or social coordinator. Someone was talking about taking a pretty boy to bed. Luke felt a hand pinch his nipple, and then a mouth fastened to his. He tried to push away, but ended up tripping over his own feet and fell back laughing on the sofa.

“Don’t fight this, pretty boy. You know you want this. You and your friend Mikey will make an awesome threesome.”

Suddenly there was shouting and bright lights. Students were scattering in all directions.  Two hands grabbed Tom and threw him toward the floor. Whoever was doing the tossing seemed angry. He growled some sort of threat. Luke’s brain wasn’t working fast enough to pick up the words. Luke was grabbed by his arms and slung over the big man’s shoulder. He started to kick, imagining some scene where the fair virgin is raped by the Viking marauder. A sharp swat stopped the kicking momentarily as Luke yelped.

“Be still, you fool boy. You’re in no shape to walk.”

Luke’s dazed brain snapped to attention. That was Milton. Milton was carrying him over his shoulder as if Luke were a slumbering six year old. “Put me down,” Luke wailed and pounded on Milton’s back with his fists.

Luke’s protest had no effect on Milton, who kept walking while unleashing a volley of swats. “Be still, I said. I don’t think you’re too drunk to understand that.”

The cold night air hit Luke like a blast from the freezer. Sometime during the night he’d stripped off his sweater. He shivered as the wind prickled his exposed arms. Milton dumped Luke in the backseat of a car, and buckled the seat belt. Mike was pushed into the seat next to him. Luke felt an overcoat being tucked around the two of them. He couldn’t seem to stop shivering, and as the car moved he felt queasy. Please, God, don’t let me throw up here. 

The car stopped. He’d made it, no vomiting. Milton pulled Luke from the car, and he doubled over heaving on the sidewalk. 

“Where’d you find them?” Tilden said from somewhere over Luke’s head.

“At a frat party. They’ve both had too much to drink, but otherwise I think they’re no worse for the wear,” Milton said in the same quiet tone that he might answer a question on the history of the Reformation.

“What else?” Tilden asked sharply.

Luke tried to sit up. He didn’t want to puke again, but, God, everything was spinning. Tilden was staring at him. Even in Luke’s inebriated state, he recognized the look of disapproval. Luke wrapped his arms around his body, shivering in the cold. At least the cold was sobering him up. He could hear the three tops talking above him. Someone’s hand was on his shoulder, and they blessedly draped a coat over him.

It was Trent who finally answered the question. “Some student was pawing them, but I don’t think it got any further than that. We arrived in time, and Milton probably scared him off boys for life—threw him against the wall like he was a mere five pound sack of flour.” 

“Senior, Delta Lambda member. I’ve seen him on campus, but don’t know his name,” Milton added. “Let’s get these two in bed. We’ll sort it out in the morning.”

 

****

 

Tilden awoke at his usual time in the morning, even though his sleep had been disturbed twice during the night for two more bouts of vomiting. Luke was curled against Tilden, his head on Tilden’s chest. He looked angelic, his blond hair cascading over his pale cheeks. Tilden stroked his boy’s cheek, letting his index finger glide over the traces of the fine, blond beard. “You scared me last night, Luka,” Tilden whispered to the sleeping young man. He crawled out of bed, careful not to wake Luke, and headed for the kitchen where he could smell coffee brewing.

Trent was standing over the stove, flipping bacon with a fork, and sipping coffee. He turned as Tilden entered the kitchen. “Help yourself to the coffee. I made high test—thought everybody might need some this morning.”

“Thanks.”

“Your boy still sleeping?”

“Yes.”

Milton came down the stairs, his eyes red from lack of sleep.

“You look a little worse for wear,” Tilden said.

“Next time your boys go out partying you can deal with the after affects with both of them. Dear Michael vomited on the hour every hour until six. At least he only missed the bathroom once. Did Luke sleep OK?”

“Two bouts of vomiting, but now out like a light.” 

Sheldon and Mace showed up for breakfast as Trent plated the eggs. “I see you guys are just in time to miss out on all the work.”

“The two new brats still sleeping?” Sheldon asked

“One new brat and a visitor,” Tilden interrupted.

Sheldon’s brows rose in a stylized expression of surprise. “Yeah, and the moon is made out of green cheese.”

“Careful, Sheldon. Don’t push today,” Milton warned.

“If I’d been out on a drunken rampage for half the night, you wouldn’t let me sleep in. You’d have me out raking leaves before the sun came up.”

“It’s raining,” Milton said.

“That never stopped you before.”

“And I made you walk five miles in a blizzard barefoot to school. Get over it.” Milton’s tone was playful, but there was a touch of warning in the final phrase.

“They’re in trouble for it, aren’t they?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Sheldon, Mace, I need you both to help down at the bookshop today. We have a Sunday tea today,” Trent said as he passed the bacon.

“I thought you gave up on pressing me into service after I broke two teapots. You just want to get me out of the house.” Sheldon pretended to stare hard at the three tops as if one would confess on the witness stand.

“So you did drop the teapots on purpose. I didn’t think it was possible for someone to trip over the same bookshelf twice,” Trent teased.

“No, I didn’t mean that.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Milton said. “Seriously now, do you think you could get the camera crew out of the house for a few hours? Luke and Tilden need some privacy.”

“I could ask for a favor; both Dave and Lionel are good guys, but I’d have to offer something in return.” Sheldon thought for a moment while he sopped up the egg yolk with his toast. “Would you be willing to do an unscripted interview afterwards?”

“I’d rather keep everything private,” Tilden said, swallowing another gulp of coffee.

“You’re on a reality show; privacy doesn’t happen. I think I can get you two hours. That’s the camera crew’s allotted lunch and coffee breaks for the day.”

Tilden nodded. It would have to do. Spanking Luke this early in the relationship was going to be hard; spanking him in front of a national television audience would be impossible. Tilden pushed the rest of his breakfast away; he didn’t think he could eat any more.

“Come walk with me.” It was Milton, his voice quiet and insistent. 

“It’s raining,” Tilden said automatically.

“I know; I don’t think we’ll melt.”

Tilden got up from the table with a wry smile. It was pointless to argue with Milton once he had that gleam in his eye.

“So, do you have something to talk about, or did you just want company on a rainy constitutional?” Tilden glared at the rain spilling over his hat brim.

“Have you decided how you’re handling Luke?” The bluntness of the question was typical Milton when he was concerned. This directness was infinitely reassuring to a volatile submissive like Sheldon, and even Tilden could feel himself relaxing under Milton’s steady gaze.

“I need to spank him.”

“You need to paddle him.”

Tilden hesitated before replying, “He’s only been with me two days. I’m not sure I’m comfortable being that harsh.”

“It’s not harsh when it’s justified. He deliberately defied and deceived you. I know you’re uncomfortable with physical punishment. Remember Luke self-identified as a brat. This is not taking a paddle to any Tom, Dick, and Harry on the street. This is taking a paddle to a submissive who indicated he wanted the relationship to go beyond the bedroom or the club. You will use the very qualities of the power exchange to guide him. Luke will understand this and respond to this. Remember he could have been hurt or worse last night. I don’t know what would’ve happened if we hadn’t shown up when we did.”

Milton didn’t need to continue; Tilden’s imagination was more than adequate to visualize many grim scenarios: drowned in a campus fountain, date raped, comatose from alcohol poisoning at a local hospital. All those possibilities were real. The faculty and administration were loath to enforce the campus alcohol policy as it made them feel like a cross between storm troopers and the administration of the universally reviled Christian colleges in Texas. Periodically they made halfhearted attempts to decrease the alcohol through education and feeble enforcement. 

“If you do it right, you won’t have to do it again. You want him to think long and hard before he ever does anything that stupid again. Tilden, I know you prefer to comfort rather than punish, but you have a powerful and unsure submissive who is bratting right now. He needs your reassurance with strict punishment. You need to do what’s right.”

“I know.” Tilden nodded. “It’s just hard.”

“You know I’ll help you any way I can. I’ll get Mike sorted out and back to his dorm room. From what he was babbling last night when he wasn’t hugging the porcelain god, I think he coerced Luke to go—threatened to end his friendship. Spinning brats,” Milton muttered under his breath and then in a more normal tone, “You feel ready now? I’m starting to get soaked.”

“Thanks, Milton.”

“Anytime.”

 

****

 

Luke groaned as Tilden shook him awake. “Let me sleep. My head hurts.”

“Up, shower, breakfast.”

“No,” Luke moaned and pulled the covers over his head.

Tilden stripped the covers off Luke. “You can look as pitiful as you want, but you’re still getting up.”

Luke blanched. Last night was a blur, but he remembered being carried out of the frat house and puking on the driveway, and now here was Tilden staring down at him. He didn’t look angry, but resolute. Luke dropped his eyes and scrambled out of bed, but not fast enough to avoid the swift swat to his rump.

“Kitchen in ten minutes.”

Luke looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. The face staring back was not pretty: red eyes, pale skin, snarled hair. He felt no better than he looked, pounding headache and queasy stomach. What was going to happen to him today? Tilden’s sharply issued instructions hadn’t provided any clues.

Luke felt no better after he showered and dressed. He just wanted to collapse back into bed, pull the blanket over his head, and make last night never happen. He shivered, remembering the feel of the frat boy’s hands on his chest. If Milton hadn’t shown up—no, he didn’t want to think about it. They’d rescued him. The final act of gallantry before they washed their hands of him.

Only Trent was at the table in the kitchen when Luke walked in, surrounded by scattered sections of _The Boston Globe_. Where was Tilden? Was he too disappointed or angry to even pretend to have polite breakfast conversation?

“You fool boy,” Trent said, pulling Luke down on a chair next to him and kissing him on his forehead. “Fool, fool boy,” he muttered again before he got up and moved to the stove. “Drink the water. You’re dehydrated after all that alcohol. I’ll get you some breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Tough. A light breakfast will settle your stomach. I wouldn’t be saying no to any of us today. Tilden already should be taking the skin off your backside, at least he’d better, and I don’t think you want any more.”

Luke didn’t have time to think about that comment because Mike came down the stairs followed by Milton and Tilden. Came down the stairs was probably a euphemistic way of seeing it. Milton was pushing Mike in front of him. Mike looked drawn, his rangy frame dwarfed by Milton’s clothes. His face was white, making both his hair and eyes look darker. He looked lost as he stumbled on the last step. His eyes darted around the kitchen like a trapped animal.

Trent met Mike at the doorway, looped his arm around his shoulders, and kissed him firmly on the top of the head. “No one’s going to die here. Come eat breakfast.” Mike didn’t resist as Trent guided him into a chair and handed him a glass of water. “Drink.”

Mike dropped his head onto his folded arms and choked back a quiet sob. Tears ran down his cheeks, soaking the sleeve of his borrowed sweatshirt. “I’m sorry,” Mike choked out. “I’m an idiot.”

Luke reached over and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You didn’t make me go.”

“I did.”

Luke stood and wrapped both his arms around his friend. He didn’t even try to stop the tears that were now flowing down his own face.

It was Milton’s voice that cut through the sobbing. “Both of you eat your breakfast, now.” The final word sounded like a rifle shot. “We’ll sort this out,” he added more gently.

Trent set a poached egg, a piece of toast, and a cup of tea in front of each boy. “Eat. It should settle your stomach.” In turn, he tousled both boys’ hair. The only sound in the kitchen was the occasional sniffle, the slurp of tea, and scrape of silverware against a plate. 

Mike swallowed the last of the toast, pushed his plate away, and buried his face in his hands.

“No, no there’s no need for that,” Milton scolded, wrapping his arms around Mike and lifting him from the chair. “Luke will be OK; I promise. Let’s get you home now.”

Trent picked up the plates and tossed the dish towel on the counter. “I’ve got to get to the bookshop before Sheldon pours tea on a customer’s head. Be good, kiddo.” He dropped a kiss on Luke’s forehead as he walked by.

Luke was now alone with Tilden. He darted a glance at Tilden before he dropped his eyes back to the table. Tilden was leaning against the counter, his arms crossed, his expression stern.

“No use putting this off any longer.” Tilden held out his hand to Luke.

Luke slowly reached out, nothing like walking to your own funeral. He grasped Tilden’s hand.

“I’ve got you,” Tilden said in his ear.

Luke could have resisted a sharp scolding or a shouted reprimand, but those quiet words and the steady contact against his hand shattered his remaining defenses. He slumped against Tilden, fighting tears. “I’m so sorry. I’ve ruined everything.”

Tilden guided Luke into the study and onto the sofa. Luke felt his head pressed into Tilden’s chest and the strong arms locked around his waist. Luke’s breath caught as he struggled to contain the tears. Finally he dried his eyes and leaned against Tilden’s chest.

“Can you talk?”

Luke nodded and licked his dry lips. “What happens now?”

“Luka, that depends on you. I can let you go, and life can move on as if this whole episode never occurred.”

“No, please.” Luke clung to Tilden, trying to bury himself further under those strong arms. “I’m sorry. Don’t get rid of me.”

Tilden shook Luke by the shoulders. “Listen to me. That’s only one option. The other option is I punish you, and you’re mine forever.”

“Punish me,” Luke whispered.

“Take you shoes and pants off.”

Luke stood and with shaking hands untied his shoes and unbuttoned his jeans. In his imagination he’d thought this would be sexy and fun. He stood in his boxers and stared down at his feet. Come on, he coached himself. You’re a submissive; this is part of the deal.

Tilden’s voice broke through the fog in Luke’s mind. “Have you ever been spanked before?”

Luke shook his head.

“All right. I’ll walk you through it. I’m going to sit in the kitchen chair, which I’ve placed in the middle of the room. You’ll come to my right side, and I’ll help you over my knees. I’ll pull down your boxers and spank you.”

Luke’s gaze fell on the chair and the small paddle underneath it. “Are you going to use the paddle?”

“Yes, do you think that’s unfair?”

“No.” Luke gulped.

Tilden moved to the hard chair and motioned for Luke to come to his right side. Luke pushed one foot in front of the other, the walk to the gallows.

“OK, down you go.” Tilden’s voice was soft, and his hands were warm as he positioned Luke between his knees and secured Luke’s right wrist behind his back.

Luke stiffened, feeling the vulnerability of his position, and tried to rise. His breathing was in short gasps; he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He hadn’t imagined this; he hadn’t imagined it feeling so real.

“Deep breaths, Luka. Why are we doing this?”

Luke’s mind fizzled. Tilden wanted him to answer questions while he was lying face down staring at Tilden’s shoes.

Tilden’s hand was steady and reassuring on Luke’s back. “Why are we doing this?”

“Because I snuck out, got drunk, nearly got date raped.”

“Rape is never the victim’s fault,” Tilden said sharply. “You were dishonest. You put yourself in harm’s way by drinking copious amounts of alcohol. College students die of alcohol poisoning every year. I love you.” The swats fell hard and fast. “You will not sneak out. You will not drink alcohol in excess. You will not harm yourself.”

Luke jerked as the hand met his flesh. It stung, sending sharp prickles across his whole ass. Tilden brought his hand down all over Luke’s rump, then his hand fell at the top of Luke’s thighs. Luke jerked and yelped. It wasn’t supposed to hurt this much. The next blow brought a louder yelp from Luke. “It hurts! I promise!” The swats kept coming. Luke would’ve promised never to look at alcohol again if Tilden would just stop. He was now shouting continually with each spank. Suddenly it stopped. Luke struggled to rise, but Tilden’s arm was still firmly anchored across his back. He felt Tilden shift his weight and then an explosion of pain across his butt. The paddle was Luke’s last coherent thought as he gasped for breath between wails. Luke was limply sobbing over Tilden’s knees when the paddling stopped.

“Luka, it’s all over now. Nice deep breaths for me.”

“I’m sorry,” Luke wailed.

“It’s all over now. You’re all forgiven. Can you get up for me?” Tilden eased Luke to his knees and guided Luke’s head onto his lap. “I’ve got you; cry all you want.”

Luke’s ass hurt. The skin felt like it was on fire, but there was also comfort with his head resting in Tilden’s lap as his top stroked his hair.  His top, Tilden had said he loved Luke. Luke had a top, a real life top. He glanced up at Tilden.

“Better?” Tilden’s expression was tender. The sparkle was back in his eyes.

“That hurt.”

“It was supposed to. Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we’ll go lie on the sofa. It’ll be more comfortable for both of us.

Tilden wrapped his arms around Luke and guided him into the kitchen where he pressed a glass of juice into his hand. “Drink.” With a damp tea towel, he washed the tears from Luke’s face. Softly he blew on Luke’s cheeks, soothing the sticky chapped feeling. “All mine.”

Luke leaned against Tilden. He felt strangely euphoric and secure. Tilden put on some Russian movie about a drunk mixing up his apartment with a stranger’s on New Year’s Day. Reading the subtitles was a struggle, and Luke snuggled against Tilden, letting the babble of Russian voices wash over him.

“I’m sorry.”

“We’ve taken care of it. You’re on restriction, no going anywhere except to classes. You will stay in sight of Milton, Trent, or me, and no alcohol unless we give it to you. Now, watch the movie.”

“It’s in Russian.”

“You need the practice. It’s not like you’re an A student.” Tilden tousled Luke’s hair, taking the sting out of the words.

Luke was silent a few minutes, staring at the television. “I went to the party for Mike.”

Tilden sat up and turned the volume down. “Why?”

“He said he’d hate me if I didn’t.”

“Luka, _druzhok_ , why didn’t you tell me?”

Luke was silent.

“This happened when Milton and I took the boxes to the car, didn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“You know you could’ve told me. We would’ve invited him for dinner or taken you guys to a movie. Mike’s scared right now. We don’t want to come between you two.”

Luke fingered the throw that Tilden had tossed over the two of them. It was a hideous afghan. It must have been made by a relative, or it surely would have been in the trash.

“My mother made it during her knitting phase. It is rather lurid.”

Luke couldn’t help but laugh at the anguish in Tilden’s voice. “Nauseating.”

“Just don’t tell her.”

“What did Milton do to Mike?”

“Took him home, probably lectured him on the dangers of excess alcohol.”

“Nothing else?”

“No, we’re not his tops.”

“But he needs a top.”

“Do you know what you’re asking? It means sharing me.”

“I don’t care. He needs you.”

“That’s very noble, but a huge commitment.” Tilden kissed Luke’s hair. “We’ll think about it later. I think we’ve dealt with enough crisis today. Do you want a snack before we talk to the TV people?”

“What TV people?”

“Sheldon bribed them with a promised interview to give us a few hours of privacy. I wasn’t going to spank you on national television.”

“You mean I can get out of a spanking by keeping the camera crew here?”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Tilden affectionately patted Luke’s rump. “I could always use the bathroom. It’s too small for a camera crew. Go get your pants on. We don’t need to give them a peep show.”

 

 

The family room had been turned into a temporary TV studio with extra lights and several pictures moved to prevent reflections off the glass. Both Luke and Tilden were sitting on the sofa with Luke rolled over on his hip, leaning against his top, trying to take the weight off his sore backside. David and Lionel had explained that Lionel would do the interview and David would do the filming.

Lionel gave both men a friendly smile and addressed the first question to Luke. “I understand you were disciplined today. Can you tell our audience what that was like?”

Luke looked down at his hands. Tilden squeezed the back of his neck reassuringly and murmured, “Look at it this way—we won’t have to explain it to your parents or your friends; you can just show them the tape of this interview.”

“You need to speak loud enough that our microphones can pick it up,” Dave said from the back of the room. 

“I’ve got to get your Russian better. Then we can chat away and they’ll be none the wiser.”

Luke smiled at the thought and launched into the few Russian phrases he could remember. “ _Menya zovut Luka. Ya student. Moya sestra tozhe studentka. Moy otets stroitel’”_

“Luke, you don’t have a sister, and your father’s a banker and a businessman, not a construction worker.”

“I don’t know how to say banker in Russian.”

“ _Bankir_ almost like in English. It’s a borrowed word. Most of the words for the western economy are borrowed from English.”

Lionel blew out a breath in exasperation. “I’m sure our audience is fascinated by this Russian lesson, but this is not educational programming.”

“Too bad.” Tilden laughed. “That’s the most Russian I ever heard Luke say at once. I must get you to come to class.”

“Can you please tell the audience what the spanking was like?” Lionel asked again.

Luke whispered in Tilden’s ear, “How do you say painful, scary?”

“ _Boleznenny. Ya Boyalsya_. I was afraid. But I think we’d better go to English now. Their translator is out sick today, and they’re getting cranky.”

“You’re no fun.” Luke stuck out his lower lip in a mock pout. “You want the God’s honest truth with Hail Marys and all that jazz. I was scared. I couldn’t decide if I was going to puke or piss on him when he put me over his knees.”

“Luka, you don’t need to be crude,” Tilden reprimanded.

“More rules.” Luke rolled his eyes in exasperation. “He likes rules.” Luke squirmed at the playful swat Tilden landed on the front of his thigh. “OK, I’ll be serious. It hurt more than I expected but wasn’t nearly as bad as I feared. Does that make any sense?”

“No,” Lionel answered, sighing softly to himself. Luke could tell that Lionel was exasperated.

“It’s hard to explain. Tilden spanked hard, but he was also gentle, kind. He held me all the rest of the morning. I felt safe, loved.” Luke felt a flush rise up his cheeks. “I’m a submissive; it’s part of me.”

“So the pain was worth it?”

“I wouldn’t say that. I don’t get off on the pain. That’s not it. I deserved it, but Tilden wasn’t cruel about it. I think he would call it a teaching moment.”

Tilden ruffled Luke’s hair, letting his hand rest on the wild, blond curls. “ _Kak tebe ne stydno?”_

Luke laughed. He didn’t have any idea what Tilden just said, but he figured the TV guys didn’t either.

“Could you tell us why you got a spanking?” Lionel asked.

“I snuck out and drank myself into a stupor.”

“Did Tilden use an implement?”

“What are you guys, voyeurs or something?” Luke asked.

Lionel looked up at the ceiling as if praying for patience. “I didn’t write the questions; I’m just reading them.”

“He used some kind of paddle.” Luke turned toward Tilden. “Where’d you get that thing? It hurt.”

“It’s Milton’s.”

“That figures. Another disadvantage of a household with three tops,” Luke said with an exaggerated sigh. “They can borrow implements from each other.”

“Luke, many of our audience have no personal knowledge of power exchange relationships and consider any form of corporal punishment abuse. How would you address those fears?”

“I got spanked. I wasn’t beaten, punched, or pushed down the stairs.”

“But still your partner intentionally created physical pain?” Lionel reiterated.

“It’s not abuse,” Luke insisted, his voice rising with belligerence.

“Let me answer this,” Tilden interrupted. “Shouting at them won’t convince anyone.” Tilden settled back and assumed a lecturing tone. “Firstly, I believe this question was asked merely to provoke us, not inform your audience. Even with today’s pitiful state of network television, I don’t believe you would base a reality show on spousal abuse. Stirring up such a controversy may increase your ratings, but it does a disservice to the participants. Secondly, this relationship is based on trust and consent at all times. I gave Luke an opportunity to walk away free and clear this morning. Thirdly, as a top I’m honor bound to protect my partner. This tradition is as ancient as the vow of a liege to his knight. To violate that oath is unthinkable.”

Luke looked up at Tilden, watching the intensity of his top’s words reflected on his face. He reached out and wound his fingers through Tilden’s hand. Luke stopped the urge to fall on his knees and kiss Tilden’s hand. The TV guys would see it as an attempt at slapstick, and Luke meant it for real. 

“We’re done here,” Tilden said, picking Luke up and putting him on his feet. “Good day, gentlemen.” Tilden guided Luke into the kitchen and shut the door firmly behind him. “Are you OK with what I said? I didn’t expect this kind of reaction.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Luke said, wiping a stray tear from his face. “It must be emotional overload.” Luke tried for a cheeky grin, but he couldn’t quite pull it off. “When you got all serious about honor and duty—I just couldn’t keep it together anymore.”

“I’ve got you.” Tilde wrapped his arms around his brat, molding Luke against his chest.

Luke stood, clinging, not bothering to wipe the tears that were trickling down his cheeks. Slowly he felt his heart rate steady and the hitching gasps leave his breathing. Luke started to squirm to get out of Tilden’s grasp.

“All right, brat,” Tilden said with a friendly chuckle. “I guess I only get a few minutes of tender before you turn into a hellion again. I’ll have to enjoy it when I can.” He released Luke from his arms, but kept a firm grasp of Luke’s wrist until he’d studied his boy’s face carefully.

“I’m thirsty. Do you want anything?” Luke asked, trying to tamp down his still roiling emotions with mundane tasks.

Tilden nodded. “ _Sok, pozhaluysta.”_

“Can’t you stay in English?”

“You started it earlier with the TV guys,” Tilden teased. “Juice, please. Since you’ve developed this sudden obsession with Russian, I’m going to get the labeler, and we’ll label everything in the kitchen in Russian. If you’re going to torture the camera crew, you need a more effective vocabulary.”

Luke groaned. “I’ve got to be more careful next time; I can’t give you any teaching moments.”

 

****

 

Luke was stretched out on his stomach on the living room floor working on his paper when Mace came in carrying a plate of sweets.

“Did the tea go OK?” Tilden asked, looking up from the lesson plan he was grading.

“Dull. The only entertainment was Sheldon breaking a saucer. Next time you want him out of the way he goes with Milton. Too destructive.”

Tilden snagged a cookie from the plate. “Luka, would it be OK if I went out for a run? I’ll be back in thirty minutes. Mace will keep you company.”

Luke nodded, but as he watched Tilden leave, he stared at Mace with apprehensive eyes.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that. I’m not a top and I’m bearing treats. Are you OK?”

“Yeah.”

“Really are you OK? I saw Milton give Tilden the paddle this morning. I don’t know, it’s just—Trent didn’t touch me until we’d been together for months.”

Luke watched Mace squirm with embarrassment and couldn’t help but be affected by the genuine sincerity of the question. “Really, I’m fine. Can I have a cookie, or are you going to hold that tray just out of reach?”

“Oh, sorry.” Mace put the tray on the floor next to Luke and sank down cross-legged on the rug. “I was just worried.”

Luke snatched a chocolate chip cookie and plunked it in his mouth. “Really, I’m OK. A little sore but OK. These are great cookies.”

“Have some more. I made them. I was hoping you’d like them.”

“Thanks, Mace. Really, I’m OK. It’s sweet that you’re this worried, but I’m ...” Luke trailed off, unsure how to explain it. He was sore and embarrassed that he’d needed a spanking, but he was also happier than he’d felt in a long time.

“Content, absolved of guilt, safe,” Mace added softly.

Luke smiled. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“I know Tilden. He’s good.”

“Has he ever...”

“No, but he’s held me together a few times until Trent could.” Mace abruptly changed the subject. “What’s with all the Russian labels in the kitchen?”

Luke snorted. “Tilden thought I got a bit smart with the camera guys.”

Mace raised his eyebrows. “I’m not seeing the connection.”

“Well, I tried to do an interview in Russian, and I know about three words.” Luke started laughing at the memory, the irritated look on Lionel’s face, the indulgent smile on Tilden’s. “I’m sorry,” he choked. “It’s just so funny.” Luke laughed harder.

Mace gave Luke an exasperated look. “I guess you just had to be there.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go to a party and trouble follows.

**Meet Your Mate**

**Chapter 6**

 

Luke walked into Russian class shoulder to shoulder with Tilden. None of the other students lifted an eye from their books as it was a common occurrence for Luke to come in with Tilden since he was being tutored before class. Luke tried to make his way to the usual seat, but Tilden discreetly flicked his eyes toward a seat in the front of the room. Luke groaned to himself—no more hiding with the other poor oafs who’d mistakenly thought Russian would be no harder than high school Spanish. 

The class was starting a new lesson today, and for once Luke actually already knew most of the vocabulary from Tilden helping him make flash cards last night and the labeling of the kitchen. No wonder Tilden had insisted on labeling the produce in the crisper bins. The whole chapter was on Volodya and his grandmother going to the farmers’ market. He now knew the name for lots of foods he hoped to never eat: beets, cucumbers, tomatoes, and pomegranates. 

Luke glanced over at his usual place; Sveta and Sasha were sitting against the window but no sign of Mike. Luke and Mike had frequently been late; but it was now twenty minutes late. Five minutes late had usually resulted in an incomprehensible interrogation by Tilden; Luke didn’t think he’d have the nerve to walk in twenty minutes late. Suddenly Tilden was looming over Luke’s desk pointing to an apple that he’d carefully balanced on top of Luke’s backpack.

“Where’s the apple?” Tilden rapped out in Russian.

Flustered, Luke answered, “In the backpack.”

Tilden made a big show of searching through Luke’s backpack for an apple. He pulled out books and demanded from the class if they were apples. He opened Luke’s lunch and waved the sandwich in front of Luke’s nose and demanded if it was an apple.

“ _Nyet_ ,” Luke muttered as he searched his brain for the word for sandwich. Tilden had taught him the word this morning when they’d made it. He’d written it and taped it on the Baggie but Tilden had his thumb covering the word. Luke groaned; he couldn’t remember the word. Tilden had picked on him before in class, but never like this. The whole class was staring at him, some openly laughing. Finally in desperation Luke blurted out the words for bread and cheese. There was turkey on the sandwich also, but that word escaped him. 

“Excellent.” Tilden flashed Luke a private smile, which made Luke feel hot and bothered despite the environment of Russian class.

How could it be excellent that he’d called a sandwich bread and cheese? 

Tilden switched to English. “The goal of learning a foreign language is communication. Luka couldn’t remember the word for sandwich which is hardly surprising since it appears once in a text halfway through the chapter, but he finally came up with bread and cheese. In class, I will correct you for less than perfect grammar and construction, but in real life, communication is the key. I would rather have you stumble around and massacre the grammar and vocabulary than sit silently like little bumps on a log.” Tilden switched back to Russian and continued with the drill of the new vocabulary.

The bell rang and Luke automatically threw his books in his bag and started to leave.

“Luka, a minute please.”

Luke made a face and sat back in the chair but held his tongue until the rest of the class was gone. “What? Why’d I have to stay?”

“Did you forget about our little talk yesterday, about being in my sight, or with Milton or Trent?”

“But I’m worried about Mike.”

“I know, _druzhok_ , but you need to let us handle it. Just try to do what you’re told.” Tilden pushed Luke’s hair off his forehead. “That will be hard enough.”

Luke nodded. “Did you have to pick on me today?”

“Well, you weren’t paying attention.”

“I was worried about Mike,” Luke repeated.

“I know.” Tilden gave Luke a quick hug. “You were also a good sport about it. I don’t think anyone will forget the difference between in and on or the word for sandwich.”

“So why do I have to get picked on?”

“Because you’re my partner. My expectations for you are higher.” Tilden leaned over Luke and wrapped his arms around him. “Are you OK with me picking on you a bit in class, being the nasty ogre? I won’t do it if you’re too humiliated, but it will really help the class learn the material. If I pick on anyone else like that, they’ll go crying to the dean.”

“It’s embarrassing,” Luke whined. But it had almost been kind of hot too, inappropriately hot. This was Russian class. Luke shouldn’t be thinking of those things, but when Tilden had looked at him with those blue almost violet eyes, it did something to Luke. It made his mouth dry and his heart race. 

“I know. I won’t do it if you don’t want me to.”

“You’re teasing when you do it? You’re not mad?”

“Of course I’m not mad. If you don’t do the work I’ll punish you, but I’m not mad when you make a mistake.”

Luke looked at Tilden, lost in those amazing violet eyes. “I’ll do it—sort of a secret joke between the two of us.” Luke wasn’t going to tell Tilden it made him hot as hell. Oh, God, he got off on that gentle humiliation. He wanted to be the center of attention even if it meant a little humiliation. Fuck, he was messed up. He was in love with Tilden. Maybe he’d always been in love with his Russian professor with his kind expression and lean body. Maybe he’d stayed in Russian class because of that. Luke had known the minute he’d seen Tilden sitting in the group of tops at the television show that he was the choice. He’d been terrified that all the brats would know, would want Tilden, and he’d be gone before they came to his number.

“ _Maladets._ We’ve still got nearly an hour before history. Why don’t we get tonight’s homework done, then it’s not hanging over your head.”

“As long as I can lie on the floor. It hurts to sit in these chairs.” 

“Brat. I don’t feel one bit sorry for you.” Tilden playfully tousled Luke’s hair. “But you can lie on the floor. Just remember when we get to the verbs of motion and position you can be my demo, since you’re so keen to lie on the floor.”

Luke groaned dramatically. “Does it ever end with you?”

 

 

Tilden walked Luke to history class with plenty of time to spare. A cold breeze was blowing across the quad. The few dead leaves remaining in the trees snapped against their thin stems. Luke shivered, tucking his hands into his jeans. “Do you think it’ll snow?”

“Too early yet. Don’t you have any more clothes? That thin little jacket isn’t appropriate for late fall.”

“Are you going to dress me too?”

“Only if you insist on trying to catch pneumonia.”

They continued on in silence. Luke couldn’t help but smile to himself. He had his own blue-eyed hunk who cared if he was cold, who made his lunch, and who insisted he studied. Some wouldn’t consider Tilden a hunk, not ripped enough, too much an academic, but Tilden was his. Luke reached out and took Tilden’s hand. They walked the rest of the way hand in hand.

Tilden slipped his hand from Luke’s grip as they climbed the steps into the building. Luke hated the history and government building with its small windows and dark stone. It always reminded him of a prison where one of the many European rulers, who Luke could never keep straight, was imprisoned prior to execution.

As they approached the classroom door, Tilden melted away, trying to preserve Luke’s privacy. Milton was at the front of the classroom, fiddling with his laptop. Another boring slide show, Luke thought.  He tried to slip into a back row, so when the lights dimmed he could close his eyes. Milton shook his head as Luke entered a rear aisle and flicked a chair up near the front with the back of his hand. Luke tried a pleading look, but he could tell Milton wasn’t going to buy it, and he trudged up front.

Luke watched the door, hoping to spot Mike. It was bad enough to sit up front, but it was twice as bad by himself. He didn’t see Mike enter, but in this moderate sized lecture hall he could hide in the back and be invisible. Luke flipped open his notebook and attempted to take notes. Luke remembered the expression on Milton’s face when he’d flipped through his notes yesterday. Milton hadn’t been impressed by the stick figures crawling around the margins or the elaborate games of hangman.

Luke’s ears still burned at Milton’s comment. “Boy, if you’re not going to read the material at least take notes. Creative invention will not pass my classes.”

Half the class period was over, and Luke had only managed to get three lines down, and these were headings copied directly from the slides: industrialization, Karl Marx, and colonialism. What did these three words have in common? Had Marx been an advocate of German colonization of Africa, or maybe he was an industrialist? The girl sitting next to him seemed to know. She was taking copious notes; she’d already filled three pages and was starting on her fourth. Milton mentioned something about Marx collaborating with a guy whose name sounded like English. With sudden inspiration, Luke decided he was the shopping store magnet responsible for the founding of Marks and Spencer. The name was probably anglicized because of World War II. Luke was sure the Brits had fought the Germans then, unless all those war films he watched were wrong. Luke’s mind was now lost in a world of men’s haberdashery and images of London burning with dashing lads parachuting from burning planes.

Still lost in his reverie, Luke hadn’t noticed that the class had ended and Milton had come up behind him and was staring at his notebook until he felt Milton’s hand on his shoulder.

“Dear boy, pray tell me what fighter planes and well dressed mannequins have to do with the _Communist Manifesto_.”

“That’s what you were talking about.” Luke gave Milton a sheepish grin.

“Were you even trying?” Milton glared hard at Luke.

Luke dropped his eyes back to his notebook, embarrassed. He’d been trying; it just didn’t make any sense, and he couldn’t seem to pay attention no matter how hard he tried.

“Did you take any notes this class period?”

Luke slid his notebook toward Milton, keeping his head down.

“Less than three lines.” Milton slapped the notebook down on the desk, making Luke jump. “Do you want to fail this class? Because that’s what it looks like. I show the slides for a reason. They have the bullet points to help people take notes. You’re not supposed to sit here drawing pictures.”

Luke stared down at his notebook. Not even aware of it, he picked up a pencil and started sketching a wild-eyed, angry face.

Milton tipped Luke’s books onto the floor. “Are you so disrespectful that you would doodle when I’m talking to you?”

Luke twisted his hands in his lap. He could feel Milton’s hot breath against the side of his face. Luke sniffed and wiped his face on his sleeve. Why did tears come so easy for him? He was a guy. He should square his shoulders, raise his eyes, and tell this nosy bastard off. Instead, Luke kept his eyes down and wished he could melt through the floor.

Milton’s voice was softer now, but no less insistent. “Look at me and answer the question.” Milton was squatting in front of Luke. He took Luke’s chin is his hand. “Talk to me, boy.”

Luke could feel the tears rolling down his face; he couldn’t stop them now. Milton got up. Luke made a grasp for Milton’s hand, suddenly afraid of being left alone. Luke felt a strong hand on his shoulder and heard a whispered reassurance before Milton vanished to the back of the room. Luke turned and choked out, “Don’t go.”

“I’m not.” Milton’s voice was measured and calm. “I’m just securing the doors.”

Luke buried his face in his hands and collapsed over his desk. He felt a hand under his arm, and he was dragged to his feet before he was pulled down to the floor with his back firmly against Milton’s chest, and Milton holding both his wrists. Milton said nothing; he just sat.

“Aren’t you going to yell at me for being an idiot? I’m too stupid to be in college. I’m just a useless pretty boy, a dumb blond.”

Milton continued to sit, silent.

“Let me go, you pervert. Fuck! Let me go.” Luke twisted and tried to get his wrists free. He kicked with his feet and felt a satisfied thrill when his heel connected with Milton’s shin. Milton never moved except to tighten his hold and shift his knees further back. “Let me go. You’ll make me miss class.”

“We’ve all the time we need.” 

Luke slumped against Milton, emotionally spent. He could feel the tears coursing down his cheeks, and he couldn’t even wipe them since Milton still had hold of his wrists. Luke felt Milton place both of his small wrist into one hand and Milton shift his weight. A starched handkerchief, smelling of fresh spring scent detergent, was wiped across his face.

“Blow.” 

Luke meekly blew, feeling like a three-year-old but too tired to resist. They were sitting on the floor backed up against a cement block wall. Dust and grime from years worth of students’ muddy shoes hung in the corners and was caked against the lower walls, escaping the janitors’ listless efforts. From this angle, Luke could see chewing gum stuck under several desks and an empty candy wrapper trapped under a chair leg. Milton’s body behind him was strong, solid, and unmoving. Luke’s cheek rested against the tweed blazer, and he could feel the wool rubbing against his face.

“Do you want to tell me what that was all about?” Milton’s voice was quiet. It barely carried beyond Luke’s ear. In contrast, the strike of the second hand on the clock mounted above the door seemed to reverberate throughout the lecture hall.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

“Have you always had trouble in school?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened in high school?”

“Nothing.”

“I think we’re beyond that sort of answer. I’m entitled to more honesty than that.”

“I only passed because my dad gave the school a big donation and the teachers were sick of me. You satisfied now? I’m going to fail this class. You happy now?” Luke tried to jerk out of Milton’s grasp, but Milton just tightened his grip and waited. Luke watched the second hand circle the clock three times before Milton spoke.

“What happened in European history?”

“I had a new teacher; she’d just graduated from college the year before. I made her life hell. I played all the high school pranks to the extreme. I think I passed because she couldn’t bear having to teach me again. The principal said just about as much when he met with my dad and me. My father just looked disappointed and wrote a check. He yelled at me at home a lot for my grades, but they never got better.”

“Do you know how to take notes?”

“Not really.”

“OK. Do you know anything about European history?”

“No, I just told you that.”

“Doing poorly in school doesn’t necessarily mean you know nothing about the subject. You never had an interest in medieval castles or European battles?”

“I had a toy castle as a kid with a moat and catapults. Does that count?”

“Probably not.” Milton stroked the back of Luke’s neck with his thumb. “So what happens when you sit in my lecture?”

“I try to pay attention. I really do.” Luke squirmed trying to turn around to look at Milton’s face, even though he feared the expression he might find there.

“Settle down. I believe you.” Milton continued to stroke the back of Luke’s neck. “Just tell me what happens when you come to class.”

Luke took a deep breath, leaning into the comfort of Milton’s hand. “It’s like your words are floating above me three thousand meters in the air. They make no more sense than if they were in Japanese.”

“Do you get that same feeling in your other classes?”

“No, Tilden’s all over me if I zone out in Russian, and English is a small group discussion.”

“How does it make you feel when Tilden jumps all over you?”

Luke sat for a moment before answering. “Embarrassed. It use to make me angry, but in some ways I think I like it. He hasn’t given up on me.”

“Neither have I.”

“But I’m going to fail. I can’t take notes. I don’t know what you’ve been talking about for the last five weeks.” Luke’s voice rose in frustration.

“Shush. I know the problem now. We can fix this.”

“Just let me fail and be done with it. I’m too stupid for college,” Luke wailed.

“Stop now.” Luke heard the threat in Milton’s voice. “Do I need to put you over my knees?”

“I didn’t think you spanked each others brats,” Luke shot back.

“Well, that got your attention. I should have tried it sooner.”

“Would you truly spank me?”

“If I thought it was the best thing, I would. It’s not something I would usually do if Tilden was around, but I’m not going to say never. I’m a dominant, and you’re a submissive. I’m not your lover or your partner, but we do have a relationship. This is the way it works.”

Luke swallowed hard. He didn’t doubt that Milton would spank him. He looked down at Milton’s large hand wrapped securely around his wrists—that would hurt. “I won’t give you a reason to spank me.”

“Good, I’d rather not. Now are you ready to hear what we’re going to do about your academics?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.” Luke stiffened at first but then relaxed. Milton had said ‘good boy’ sincerely as praise, not condescendingly. To Milton freshmen probably were all boys. 

“Do you think you can get up now?”

Luke stood and reached behind him and gave Milton a hand. 

“I’m too old for sitting on the floor,” Milton said, stretching out his long limbs. “Lets get you cleaned up, and we can chat in my office in more comfort.”

 

Luke sat in Milton’s visitor’s chair, picked at his lunch, and watched Milton search his shelves for books, which he carefully stacked on the corner of his spotless desk. Luke rubbed his eyes; they still felt sore and sticky. His face had been frightening in the bathroom mirror; everybody would know he’d been crying.

“This will work,” Milton muttered to himself as he exchanged one book for another. “Finish your lunch.”

Luke obediently bent his head back to his sandwich.

“Ugh,” Milton grunted. “Stop fretting. Trust us. We have this under control. It’s not as if I’ve never seen a boy in full meltdown. Sheldon has you beat hands down. Now please eat. I don’t want Tilden thinking I made you so upset that you couldn’t eat.”

Luke smiled shyly at Milton’s last comment and took another bite of his sandwich. He imagined Tilden standing over Milton, his hands on his hips, glaring down at his friend and scolding him, his conversation laced with Russian phrases.

“My course will make more sense once you have the appropriate background. It sounds as if your high school dropped the ball with you, however you weren’t helping the situation,” Milton scolded. 

A sharp knock on the door interrupted Milton’s lecture.  A gray-haired woman poked her head through the door. She had a pair of gold spectacles perched on her nose and secured around her neck with a black, silk cord. “Professor Brown, there’s a student to see you, Anthony Dunlap. He says it’s urgent. I hadn’t realized you already had an appointment.”

“It’s all right, Matilda. This appointment was unscheduled. This is Luke Griffith. He’s a freshman in my survey history course. Will you take him out with you and show Mr. Dunlap in.”

Matilda gave Luke a long look. She had to be noticing his red, swollen eyes. Luke scrunched down in his chair, wishing he could disappear.

Milton must have noticed Luke’s discomfort because he added, “Luke’s not feeling well.”

“Come with me, honey. I have some cough drops in my desk. Poor boy falling ill in Professor Brown’s class. He’s hardly motherly.”

Milton sighed as if this was a longstanding discussion between the two of them. Luke gave Milton a pleading look but followed Matilda out without protest into the front office.

Matilda showed Luke a worn chair and started rummaging in her desk drawer for the promised cough drops. The drawer was crammed full of office odds and ends: paper clips, rubber bands, crumpled sticky notes, and dozens of pens. Finally she triumphantly pulled out a squashed packet of cough drops. “Ah, here they are. Take one. You look like you feel miserable.”

Luke reached for the packet of cough drops. He hated cherry flavored cough drops, but it was better for her to believe that he was sick than the naked truth that he’d spent thirty minutes on the floor crying and wrestling with Milton.

“How did you get your pants so dirty?”

Luke looked down. His black jeans were covered with a fine gray film. “I was sitting on the floor.”

“Were you dizzy? Did you pass out?” Matilda reached forward and felt Luke’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever.” She continued to peer at Luke over her glasses, her expression concerned.

“I didn’t pass out. I was sitting on the floor talking.”

“On the floor?” Matilda raised her thinning eyebrows in surprise. “I just don’t understand young people today. There are perfectly good chairs in that lecture hall, and you insist on sitting on the floor. No wonder you don’t feel well—breathing all that dust.”

Luke nodded. He wished she would quit babbling. Between the cough drop fumes and the earlier crying jag, he now had a splitting headache. Luke leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

“Honey, you look like you feel terrible.” Matilda dragged a giant purse out from under her desk and pawed through its vast interior. She pulled out a bottle of aspirin, its label nearly worn off, and a small Tupperware container. “Have a piece of fudge. I made it to send to my daughter, but you know it’s no fun if you give it all away. I think my waistline can handle a few pieces.” Matilda giggled conspiratorially behind her hand.  

The thought of fudge combined with a cherry cough drop was stomach turning, but Luke didn’t know how he could escape the insistent nudge of the container and took a small piece. “Thank you, it looks delicious.”

“I’ll just pop out and get you a cup of water to take the aspirin. I’d send you home, dear, but it seemed Professor Brown wanted you to wait. He can be very opinionated when his orders aren’t followed.”

Luke swallowed the offered water and aspirin before he shut his eyes again. He wanted to go home, but he’d been ordered to stay. After yesterday’s experience with Tilden, he could imagine what would happen if he disappeared—a rapid trip over some top’s knees. The more Matilda chatted about her family, including play by play details of her daily walk with her Bichon, Luke began to think a spanking would be the lesser of the two evils. Maybe he could just go to the bathroom; he couldn’t get in trouble for going to the bathroom, could he? Of course Milton would point out that he’d been in the bathroom less than thirty minutes ago, and the bathroom was not where he’d been told to stay. Milton was a literalist; the bathroom wouldn’t count as out front with the history department’s secretary. Matilda launched into her second story about her wondrous Bichon, and Luke groaned to himself in frustration. Now desperate, he was ready to plead violent stomach distress to escape the Bichon’s adventures when Tilden walked in the door, Luke’s knight in shining armor.

“Good afternoon, Professor Blake. Professor Brown is in a meeting with a student. Do you want to leave a message for him?”

“No, I just came looking for one of my students, and he’s right here. Come on, Luka, let’s go.” Tilden plucked Luke’s backpack off the floor, swinging it over his own shoulder and then held out his hand to Luke. “It looks like you’ve had a hard day, we’ll talk about it at home.”

Luke grasped Tilden’s hand and staggered to his feet, leaning heavily against Tilden’s hip. Luke could feel Matilda’s eyes on him. Without looking, he knew her sparse eyebrows would be raised and that her mouth would be puckered into the stereotypical ‘O’ of surprise. Tilden had shifted his arm around Luke’s shoulders and was openly showing affection. At this moment, Luke wouldn’t have cared if Tilden stood with a bullhorn on the main quad and announced campus wide that he was Luke’s top; Luke wanted comfort and leaned harder into his top. Luke lay his head against Tilden’s chest, inhaling the scent—damp from the rain and a faint odor of cedar from a sweater only recently unpacked from its summer home. 

Luke heard the murmur of voices passing over his head. Tilden was probably reassuring Matilda that it was normal for a student to be plastered around him clinging like a toddler to a mother who was desperately trying to place her little darling on Santa’s lap. From his position under Tilden’s arm, Luke saw Matilda press the container of fudge into Tilden’s hands. Luke heard his top’s expression of thanks and reassurance that Luke was fine and that a doctor wasn’t necessary.

Luke felt the cool drizzle against his cheeks and tried to wriggle out of Tilden’s grasp.

“Oh no you don’t. If I have to rescue you from the talons of Matilda, I get to hold you.”

“But everyone will see.”

“I think we’re too late for discretion. We’re on a reality TV show.”

“But the first episode doesn’t air for a few weeks.”

“Your little escapade at Delta Lambda blew your cover. Two of my third year Russian students retold the story with great relish; one even bothered to learn all the Russian slang for drunken carousing. You didn’t drink moonshine, did you?”

Luke flushed, thinking of Milton carrying him over his shoulder. “No, no moonshine.”

“Good, I was hoping the student was embellishing the story to use some new vocabulary. Improperly made moonshine can be deadly, blind you or worse.”

“You sound like my high school health teacher.”

“I’m serious, Luka.”

Luke heard the unmistakable warning in Tilden’s voice and was quiet. They walked together in silence, Luke enjoying the quiet comfort of leaning against his partner. He still couldn’t believe his good fortune. But what was Tilden going to think? Luke was sure kicking and swearing at Milton wasn’t going to go unpunished.

“Tilden?”

Tilden must have heard the hesitancy in Luke’s voice because he tightened his arm around his brat’s shoulder. “Luka, we’ll talk about it after your nap.”

“But...”

“No not now. And anyway it can’t be all that awful, or Milton wouldn’t have let you out of his sight.” Luke started to protest, and Tilden turned him and swatted him twice. “I said, not now.”

They walked the remaining way home without speaking. The town was quiet now that the fall leaves lay brown and crumpled on the ground. The gray sky hung low overhead, the air heavy with the dampness of the upcoming winter. Luke shivered and leaned into Tilden.

Tilden pulled out a ring of keys and unlocked the front door instead of opening the garden gate and going to the back. Luke stared at the entry hall as if it were the the first time that he’d seen it. Unlike the rest of the house, the entry hall was furnished in the Victorian style with a massive gilded pier mirror at one end and heavy velvet drapes framing the windows. Luke still couldn’t believe that he now lived here. If Tilden hadn’t had his arm around his shoulder, Luke thought his feet would’ve taken him back to his dorm room.

“Go get your pajamas on and hop in bed for a few hours,” Tilden said, unwinding his arm from Luke’s shoulder and giving him a small push towards their bedroom.

“It’s only two in the afternoon.”

“Did I ask you for the time?”

Luke shook his head and dropped his eyes to the ground at the mild reprimand.

“It’s OK, _druzhok_. You have to be exhausted with all that happened this weekend, I know I am, and my weekend didn’t include ingesting liters of alcohol. Off you go. I’ll come lie down with you in a few minutes.”

Luke changed into his pajamas; he usually slept in boxers but Tilden had seemed obsessed with nightwear, and last night he had searched through Luke’s clothes until he came up with proper pajamas. They were a light blue cotton; a gift from a great aunt at last year’s Christmas. He’d never worn them, and he felt like a character in a censor approved Texas film where the parents slept in separate twin beds.

Luke flopped down on the bed, determined not to sleep; sleeping during the day was for kids. He watched the rain splatter on the windows and drip from the patio table. It was cold in the bedroom; he shook the blanket out from the end of the bed and pulled it up over his shoulders. He flipped on his side and watched a sparrow bravely fight the drizzle at the bird feeder, its feathers fluffed up against the cold.

 

 

Luke woke to find Tilden propped up in the bed grading papers. “How long have I been asleep?”

“A couple of hours.” Tilden bent down and kissed Luke on the forehead. “I thought you didn’t sleep during the day.”

Luke gave Tilden a sheepish smile and shrugged. “I guess I was more tired than I thought.”

“It’s been a stressful few days. I’m not surprised you’re exhausted. It probably explains a lot about what happened in history.”

Luke blushed to the roots of his hair. “I’m sorry. Is Milton mad at me?”

“No, he would’ve preferred that you’d told him that you didn’t know how to take notes and that you were lost in history classes without bruising his shins, but he’s not mad, at least not at you. He’d probably cheerfully strangle half your high school teachers.”

Luke felt his face grow hotter. “I’m sorry I don’t know what came over me.” Luke would’ve continued to apologize if Tilden hadn’t interrupted him.

“We’re tops. We understand the motivation, but we don’t condone the behavior.” Tilden’s voice had become firmer, and he had Luke trapped in his gaze.

“Ugh—I’m in trouble again.” Luke fingered the blanket that was tucked around his shoulders.

“I have a few lines for you to write.” Tilden handed Luke his blue notebook where on the top of the page he’d written two sentences in Russian. “Write each sentence twenty-five times.”

“They’re in Russian,” Luke whined.

“I’m aware of that,” Tilden said with a small smile. “You can translate them also. I wrote out the verbs in the infinitive and all the nouns and adjectives in the nominative case, so they would be easy for you to find in the dictionary. Don’t fuss, or next time I won’t be so generous.” Tilden tousled Luke’s hair and turned back to the papers he was grading.

Luke dutifully flipped through the dictionary for a few minutes. “I don’t understand the first sentence. ‘I won’t hit foot or leg Milton.’”

“I won’t kick Milton. Russian doesn’t have a separate word for foot and leg, and it’s in the instrumental case, so it literally means ‘I won’t strike Milton with my foot.’”

“Can’t I just do these lines in English?”

“No, _druzhok_. You might as well learn something from them. You’ve had plenty of practice writing in English. Of course, we could always do these in English, and you can write each sentence one hundred times.”

“No, Russian’s great.”

“Russian’s great. That’s a change. We might have a future Russian scholar, yet.” Tilden said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Luke wrote for a few moments before turning back toward Tilden. “Did Milton say anything about seeing Mike today in history? I was up front; I thought I might have missed him.”

“He wasn’t there. I stopped by his dorm room, but there was nobody home.”

“Oh,” Luke said and continued writing.

“Luka, don’t worry about it. I think Mike was just too embarrassed to face us today. Milton’s going to stop by his room tonight when he wouldn’t expect us.” Tilden bent down and kissed the top of Luke’s head. “In general, you shouldn’t talk when you’re writing lines. You’re supposed to reflect on the meaning of the line.”

“Yeah, once I wear out the dictionary finding the meaning. You could translate them for me?” Luke looked at Tilden with wide, pleading eyes.

“That would take away half the fun. I could make it harder and make you translate from English into Russian.”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

“I thought you’d see it my way.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The family grows by one.

**Meet Your Mate**

**Chapter 7**

 

Tilden looked at his first year Russian class. There was still no sign of Mike. He’d tried to act nonchalant about Mike’s absence with Luke since Luke was already agitated, but both Tilden and Milton were concerned. Milton had stopped by Mike’s room this morning before his eight o’clock lecture, but found it empty. The floor’s resident advisor had also not seen Mike. From Jeremiah, Milton had discovered that Mike’s parents had a home on the coast. Tilden hoped that Mike had fled home. It was the expected response from a distressed freshman, but Luke had made it clear that Mike’s parents could be charitably described as distracted.

Tilden dismissed his class, watching the students file out in small groups chatting among themselves about the latest television show or Monday night football. Luke looked up at Tilden, the worry obvious in his expressive eyes. 

“Where’s Mike?”

“I don’t know. Does he have a friend where he might have gone for a few days?”

“I don’t know of any. I think he went to high school somewhere on the shore for at least a year or two. His parents moved around a lot. You think he’s OK, don’t you?”

“Luka, I think he’s confused right now, but yes I think he’s OK. Try not to worry. You have enough on your plate right now.”

“You won’t just leave him out there, will you?”

“What kind of top do you think I am?” Tilden said with mock indignation and tousled Luke’s hair. “Come on, Trent’s expecting you to help at the bookshop today.”

“You just want somebody to keep an eye on me. It’s a make work project.”

“I do want somebody to keep an eye on you, and you know why. You made the choice; you live with the consequences. But Trent does need the help; he’s been complaining about needing an up to date inventory for the last two years.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t look so glum. It won’t be that bad. Trent will feed you, and Mace is good company. Trent will let you study if you prefer.”

Luke made a face. “I don’t want to study all day.”

 

The Olde Curiosity Shop was quiet at this time of the morning. A few students clustered around the small tables, drinking endless cups of tea and tapping on their laptops. An older gentleman was leafing through an aged set of encyclopedias. Tilden could smell the combination of dust and decomposing paper that reminded him of the hours he’d spent searching the library stacks for just the right book. Mace waved from the soda counter where he was writing today’s specials on a chalkboard and gave Luke a slow smile.

Luke was tucked in behind Tilden’s shoulder, embarrassed and unsure. He kept his eyes on the floor and pretended that he hadn’t seen Mace.

Trent wiped his hands on a tea towel as he finished preparing a latte and came over to greet them. “Thanks for offering to help with our inventory. We’ve gotten way behind and neither of us are much good at it. Thirty minutes updating a database, and we’re both ready to shut the shop and go hunting or fishing.”

Tilden smiled at Trent, relieved at Trent’s quick assessment that Luke needed to feel as if he were doing valuable work, not just being babysat for a few hours. Tilden snagged a brownie from under a glass cake cover, broke it in half, and offered half to Luke.

“How are you going to teach Luke good eating habits when you’re feeding him chocolate at ten thirty in the morning?” Trent asked. His attempt to sound stern was destroyed by his inability to mask the smile that was breaking across his face.

“I promised Luke you would feed him,” Tilden replied, licking chocolate from his lips.

“I will, but I’d like to get a little work out of him before he empties the larder. Mace, will you show Luke where to put his books and then get him started in the mystery section.”

Mace set the glass on the counter and with a small nod indicated that Luke should follow him toward the rear of the store. Luke hesitated; Tilden squeezed Luke’s shoulder and gave him a slight shove towards Mace.

“I’ll keep a close eye on him,” Trent said as soon as the other two men were out of earshot. “I’ll also keep the blasted TV guys under wraps. Fortunately they both seem to have a fondness for sweets and fancy coffee.”

“I hardly notice them anymore except when I want a private moment. Sheldon said that subjects of documentaries rapidly forget about the camera’s presence. They’re easy to deal with at college except my first year class was hamming it up this morning doing dialogues.” Tilden smiled at the memory. “Milton’s lucky; they gave him a remote camera for his class.”

“That’s because Sheldon told Dave and Lionel that Milton lectured in a monotone. They use that time for a coffee break. Don’t worry, Tilden. I’ll take care of Luke, and I’ll find a way to ditch the camera crew if needed. I can always drug their coffee,” Trent said with an easy smile.

“I know Luke will be safe with you. He’s just so unsure of himself.”

“It’s all new for him. Still no sign of Mike?”

“No, I’m going to drive out to his parents’ house today. The phone service seems to be out of order, but I’m hoping he’s there.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to round up your stray. I’ll take good care of Luke.”

“Thanks, Trent.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m just pleased it’s not Sheldon.” Both tops laughed.

“I know what you mean. Last time I had Sheldon for the day I was never so glad to see Milton. I was ready to strangle him.”

“He can be rather trying,” Trent said. “I’ll see you tonight. Don’t worry.”

 

Tilden shot a quick glance at his map over on the passenger seat. If his calculations were correct, he should arrive at the Stollers’ house in thirty to forty minutes. He’d made good time. In summer these roads teemed with traffic heading toward Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket, but with the approach of winter the traffic became sparser and sparser the closer he came to the shore. Even with the heat cranked up, Tilden thought he could feel the cold wind from the Atlantic. According to the directions, he was looking for a house right on the beach. 

He wound through a tiny town. The majority of small shops that sold T-shirts proclaiming love for Nantucket, sailing, or other such things were closed for the seasons. Vendor carts, abandoned for the winter, were chained together in the town’s parking lot with kilometers of rusty chain wound about them as if a herd of determined thieves with bolt cutters were prowling the town. Tilden saw one hearty soul, head bowed against the wind, hurry from the post office to her car, and there were three cars in the parking lot of a local cafe. Its sign offering free children’s meals every Monday and Tuesday swung wildly on its one remaining hinge.

The house sat in a cluster of modest summer cottages, a living history of the coast before the wild opulence of Martha’s Vineyard. It was a gray clapboard with peeling paint and two missing shutters. One shutter haphazardly leaned against the corner of the house as if it were a yard ornament amongst the dying weeds. Tilden climbed the three steps to the weathered porch and knocked on the door. This didn’t look promising. At least to Tilden’s untrained eye, the house didn’t look weatherized for winter and appeared uninhabited. There was no answer to his knock. Tilden turned the handle on the door. Much to his surprise, the tumblers clicked over, and the door opened.

Even in the semidarkness, Tilden immediately spotted the huddled figure on the floor. He dropped to his knees; his hand moving to the boy’s neck. Please dear God, he thought. A long forgotten Orthodox prayer came unbidden to his lips as he touched the white skin. He saw the chest rise and fall, and felt the thud of the heart under his fingertips. A single sob of relief escaped his lips. Tilden glanced around the prone boy; he didn’t see any pills, just a bottle of cheap, grocery store brand vodka, and the acrid smell of marijuana smoke hung in the air. 

He shook Mike’s shoulders. “Mike, Misha, Mishenka, wake up. Did you take any pills? Mishka, you fool boy, answer me.”

Mike’s eye flickered open, and he tried to focus on Tilden’s face. “Who are you? Where am I?” he mumbled.

“It’s Tilden, Misha. “Did you take anything?”

“Just a little pot. Where am I?”

“You’re at your parents house.” House was a generous term for what was clearly a run down summer cottage now made even less habitable by the biting cold and the lack of electricity.

“I’m cold.”

“I’m sure you are. The heat seems to be off.”

“My parents turned the electricity and gas off before they left.” Mike shivered, shut his eyes, and pulled the thin blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“Misha, stay with me. You’re too heavy for me to carry.” Tilden shook Mike and pulled him to his feet. “Put your feet down; lean on me.” 

Mike grabbed hold of Tilden’s neck and staggered to his feet. He groaned and hung limply against Tilden. The blanket fell to the floor.

“It’s no wonder you’re cold,” Tilden said taking in Mike’s clothes for the first time. Mike was wearing jeans that were strategically ripped and threadbare and a skin tight T-shirt advertising a chain of restaurants known for its scantily clad boy servers. “Do any of your neighbors live here year round?” Tilden asked, alarmed by the coldness of Mike’s skin.

“Mrs. Dupont across the street,” Mike muttered before he slumped back against Tilden.

Tilden took a deep breath, physically and mentally bracing himself. He was going to drag an inebriated boy across the street and ask a perfect stranger to use the shower and for a change of clothes. “Misha, I need you to try to walk.”

Tilden dragged Mike across the street and rang the doorbell of the neighbor’s house.  From behind a red gingham curtain an elderly woman with old-fashioned hair curlers covered by a scarf peeked out. Tilden rang the doorbell again, and he saw the woman’s head disappear, hopefully to answer the door.

The door swung open the six centimeters the chain would permit. “How can I help you?” a frightened, skeptical voice asked.

“Thank you for opening the door. I’m Tilden Blake, a professor at Banner College. My ID’s in my back pocket in my wallet. Please feel free to check. This is Mike Stoller, your neighbor’s son and my student. He’s fallen ill and is very cold. I need to use your shower and find some clothes for him. There’s no hot water at his parents’ house.”

“His parents were always having parties with strange music and big bonfires.”

“I don’t know his parents, ma’am,” Tilden interrupted. “Mike is very sick. May we please come in?” Tilden heard the chain slide back on the door.

“You look like a decent fellow,” she said as she swung open the door. “Can’t be too careful nowadays with my husband passed away.” 

She spoke with a strong accent, almost the vowels of Maine, Tilden thought as he stepped through the door. “Are you Mrs. Dupont?”

“Yes, I am. Now don’t just stand here dawdling; the shower is straight back and to the right.” The sight of Mike seemed to have galvanized her into action. “I still have some of my husband’s things. They’ll be a bit big on that boy, but they’ll be better than the rags he’s wearing.”

Tilden pulled Mike down the hall and wedged both of them into the tiny bathroom. Mike sat limply on the pink, fluffy toilet seat while Tilden stripped him and then undressed himself. Tilden would have to hold Mike in the shower; he couldn’t stand on his own. Tilden dropped his clothes into a pile on the floor and pulled Mike to his chest under the warm spray. Keeping a firm arm around Mike’s waist and a constant chatter about his actions, he washed him down and shampooed Mike’s short hair. He was rinsing Mike’s hair one final time when Mrs. Dupont’s voice floated through the door.

“I put some clothes for you just outside the door, and I have some coffee brewing.”

“Thank you, we’ll be right out.” Tilden turned off the taps and dried Mike with a towel.

“Do you have to do it so hard?” Mike mumbled as he leaned against the tiled wall. “You’re making my head hurt.”

“I think the headache’s from the cheap vodka.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Sit down,” Tilden said, pushing Mike down on the toilet lid. “I’ll get the clothes for you.” Tilden dressed Mike in a pair of heavy corduroys and a wool shirt.

“It’s itchy.”

“Don’t complain. It’s warm. Come on, we need to go face the world.”

Mrs. Dupont was in the kitchen pouring two cups of coffee into large plastic mugs advertising a fifteen dollar oil change. “Alfred and I got the oil changed religiously every six thousand kilometers. I have enough of these mugs for the whole town.”

“Thank you for shower, clothes, and coffee,” Tilden said and took a gulp of the scalding liquid. “Where would you like me to send the clothes?”

“Oh, keep them. Its not like I can wear them. That boy does look better now, but he’s still awfully gray. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to call the doctor?”

“Thank you, he’ll be fine with a little rest. You’ve been most kind. We’ll just be on our way.”

 

****

 

Luke stared at another shelf of crumpled, paperback mystery novels. Who knew that this many people read or even wrote cozy mystery novels? Luke had asked Mace in dismay about the categories of mystery novels: thrillers, cozies, procedurals, and private investigators. They each had their own section in the database. 

“What’s a cozy?” Luke had asked, looking down the list.

“You know, a Miss Marple type.”

“Miss Marple?”

“Little blue-haired old lady who knits and gardens while her neighbors are busy knocking each other off over the perfect English tea.”

The explanation had hardly been enlightening, but Luke had just shrugged and continued staring at the computer screen and the mass of books jumbled through the shop.

“Trent’s mad about mysteries. If you can’t tell by the blurb on the back which category they fit in, ask him. He pretends that his interest is only for financial reasons, but we have a whole stack of Miss Marple wannabes on the bedside table, and he’s in his element every month when we do the English tea complete with milk and cucumber sandwiches for the mystery club.”

Luke flipped a book over after eyeing the unpronounceable name on the front cover; the rear blurb described a Swedish police officer and bragged of the number of languages into which the novel had been translated. It must be a procedural, Luke thought and typed it into the database. He entered a few more titles before picking up a paperback with a large brick house on the front topped with three Greek letters.  He thought of Mike and the disastrous party Saturday night. Mike had missed Russian again, and both Milton and Tilden had been noncommittal when Luke had asked about his friend. Just down the narrow hall was the rear exit. It wasn’t alarmed, and Trent was up front with the customers. Mace was floating around, both helping Luke and preparing the lunchtime soup and sandwiches.

Luke set the book down on the shelf and peered out the door—no one in sight. This is ridiculous, Luke berated himself. I’m a college student; if I want to check on my friend, I don’t need permission. He opened the backdoor and nearly ran into Mace who was returning from emptying the trash. 

“I just needed some fresh air,” Luke said, trying to smile easily.

“OK. I didn’t see you.”

Luke waited two minutes after he heard the door close to make sure Mace didn’t return with Trent before he jogged off to his old dorm room. He still had the key in his pocket. Mike might hide from Milton or Tilden, but surely he would talk to him. The dorm was quiet as Luke climbed the stairs and fumbled with his key in the lock. Ian, the resident advisor, who lived two doors down, poked his head out the door when he heard Luke rattle the knob and kick the perpetually sticking door.

“Hey Luke, have you seen Mike?”

“No, I was hoping he was here.”

“Nope, nobody’s seen him since Sunday. I got a note from the administration that you had a special dispensation to move out. I know I’m not the best resident advisor, but I wish you’d told me you were that unhappy.”

“It wasn’t you. It was other things,” Luke said quickly.

“Hang on. That’s my phone.”

Luke looked over the room while Ian spoke on the phone. As far as he could tell, all of Mike’s possessions were still in the room. A laptop sat on the battered desk, and Mike’s jacket sprawled over the back of a chair. His book bag was thrown under the desk, the same place that Luke had seen it on Saturday. Luke was still staring at Mike’s things when he was interrupted by a cough.

Ian was leaning against the doorframe and threw Luke an apologetic smile. “I’m usually a hands off RA, but Dr. Brown just called me, and now he’s looking for you. He asked me to hang on to you and said he’d be right over. Sorry, dude, but why don’t you just make yourself comfortable.”

Luke flopped down on the bed, pulling his knees to his chest. “Couldn’t you just have told him I wasn’t here?”

“No, I’m a history major. He’s my advisor and grades my senior thesis. I’m not pissing him off when I’m scheduled to graduate this spring.” Ian was silent for a few minutes. “You’re not in some kind of real trouble, are you?”

Luke was surprised to see Ian watching him with a worried expression on his face. Ian’s job had always seemed a formality, unlocking doors when keys were forgotten and coaxing coins from the reluctant change machines in the laundry. Luke had never sat down and talked to him.

“I’m not much of a counselor, but if you need somebody to chat with, I’m here. I know I’m straight, but I’m not a bad guy.”

“I’m not in any real trouble.” Luke groaned. “Well, not the kind of trouble you’re thinking of. Milton’s going to kill me for taking off.”

“You call Dr. Brown by his first name? That’s brave. I wouldn’t do it, and I’ve even been invited over to dinner a few times.”  Ian got a sharp glint in his eye. “You’re not with him, are you? There is that rumor about Saturday night...”

“God, no! That would be scary. Milton Brown as my top.” Luke swallowed hard, realizing he’d just said too much.

Ian’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “Oh, so you’re a kinky boy—with the professors even.

“It’s not like that,” Luke protested.

“Really?” Ian said, laughing. “So where do you keep the whips and chains?”

“Ian,” Luke spluttered, then repeated, “It’s not like that.” God, he hoped it wasn’t like that. The spanking had been bad enough; he didn’t want to imagine a whip.

“I can just see Dr. Brown in leather with a whip. The history students would really jump.”

“I don’t think he’s into leather.” Oh, please, let them not be into leather. A little spanking was one thing; chains and tiny leather shorts were another. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Ian said in a more serious tone. “But as a vanilla, straight boy I’d love to know what I’m missing, and the rumor spreading around campus about Saturday is pretty hot.”

Luke blushed. “I might as well tell you; it’s not going to be secret much longer. I’m Tilden Blake’s brat.” Or maybe it was boy or submissive or bottom. He didn’t really know; he’d landed in deep water without knowing if sharks were circling just under the waves. Brat seemed like a safe term. It was what the show had used. Somehow it was easier to swallow than submissive.

Ian whistled. “I was only kidding. No wonder they’ve been prowling around like caged tigers. You do this 24/7?”

“For a vanilla, straight boy you seem awfully familiar with the terms.”

It was Ian’s turn to blush. “I’ve done some reading—like to keep up with all the trends.”

“Naughty little straight boy.” Luke was interrupted by Milton clearing his throat. Milton glared at Luke. Luke dropped his eyes to his thighs and picked at his jeans. Ian had melted from the room, leaving Luke alone.

“I thought you were helping Trent today?” Milton’s voice was quiet but forceful.

“I was worried about Mike,” Luke said, swallowing hard and blinking back tears. Luke didn’t want to cry, but when Milton looked this stern, the tears came involuntarily.

“Tilden’s got Mike. Trust us; we told you we’d take care of it, little one.” Milton walked over to the bed, sat down, and wrapped his arm around Luke. “I know you were worried about Mike, but you can’t disappear. Trent was worried.”

“Mike’s OK?”

“Yes, he might not be when Tilden’s finished when him.”

“Are we keeping him?”

“He’s not a lost dog. He has to want it, Luke. It’s ultimately Mike’s decision.”

Luke shot Milton a huge grin. “He’ll want it.”

“Are you sure? He has to give up significant control. It’s not always easy. I think you’ve found that out, and you’ve only been with us a few days.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Hey, I know I’m not Tilden, but you can lean against me if you want.” Milton tightened his grip and pulled Luke’s head against his chest. “After yesterday, I think I’m entitled to this.”

Luke lay against Milton, his head resting on the lapels of Milton’s blazer. Milton was right; Luke wanted Tilden. He was in trouble; he had to be after giving Trent the slip, and he wanted the man who was going to enforce the rules. How mixed up can I get? he thought.

Milton ruffled Luke’s hair with his free hand. “It’s not that bad. Tilden will discipline you, but he’s not going to kill you. He loves his little ruffians.”

“How’d you know what I was thinking?” Luke said, pushing himself off Milton’s chest, embarrassed by his comfort seeking.

“I’ve had a bit of practice at this. Are you ready to get up?”

“Yeah, I can walk myself back to the bookshop.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Milton said, keeping a firm hold on Luke’s wrist. You can come sit with me while I cover Tilden’s class and teach my seminar. I’m not telling Tilden we lost you again.”

Luke started to protest, and Milton effortlessly pulled Luke sideways and landed two firm swats on his upturned backside. Luke yelped as each swat landed.

“Don’t even think about complaining. You’ve earned this.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

 

The classes were torture. The combined third and fourth year Russian class was watching a Russian television serial of Sherlock Holmes with no subtitles. Milton gave Luke the vocabulary list, but it was still incomprehensible. Luke only recognized the title from sounding out the letters and the signature pipe of Mr. Holmes. The actual action of the story involved multiple fast carriage rides and prowling through dark, foggy streets. Even as the ending credits rolled across the screen, Luke didn’t know who had committed the murder.

Every Tuesday afternoon Milton taught a seminar on the European revolutionary movements. The class was held in a conference room where both the professor and students sat around a small table. Luke sat next to Milton, relieved that he didn’t know any of the upperclassmen taking their seats until Ian scrambled into the room just before the bell rang. Luke could feel Ian’s eyes on him and was sure there would be a knowing grin on his face. Luke kept his head down, pretending to organize the pen and paper that Milton had given him. Milton must have noticed Luke’s discomfort because before starting the class he introduced him as a freshman who had a special interest in Marxism and was sitting in for a paper he was writing for a different class.  The class had only six people—impossible to lay your head on the desk and vanish into the crowd. Luke watched the clock, convinced that it had to be broken. Finally the first hour ended and nobody moved. Luke groaned to himself; it was a double period. 

Luke’s mind drifted to earlier today. He’d slipped out on Trent. There was no question that he’d violated the edict to stay with a top. Luke didn’t want to get spanked, but he was sure that was where the day was going to end. Tilden had left no doubt that unplanned disappearances were forbidden. Luke grimaced as he thought of laying across his top’s knees. Tilden’s hard hand, or worse, the paddle, across his exposed rump. It would hurt, but Luke eyes stung from the thought of displeasing Tilden. His top had gone and rescued Luke’s best friend, and Luke hadn’t been capable of staying where he was left. 

Milton was having a fast and furious exchange with a student on the Marxist evaluation of the capitalist economy when he slid a sheet of paper over to Luke. “Hang in there. We’ve got you,” was written in tiny, block print. Luke looked up at him; Milton caught his eye and nodded. Luke sighed; it wasn’t in his hands. Consequences would be meted out, but they would also fix it.

 

****

 

Mike trailed Tilden into the kitchen. It was only a couple of days ago that he’d choked down eggs under the watchful eyes of three tops, and here he was again, trapped in the glare of Tilden’s gaze. Tilden had said little on the car ride back toward campus except to ask Mike if he was warm enough and if he was hungry. Mike had expected to be returned to his dorm room, but now he was sitting in this kitchen. Tilden was fiddling with an electric teapot contraption and poured two glasses of tea.

“How do you like it?”

“I don’t,” Mike grimaced. His parents had gone through a phase where they’d drunk nothing but green tea and eaten nothing but brown rice. Mike hoped to never see another cup of tea again. Of course in his family that was probably a forlorn hope. Both his parents were always flinging themselves into new cultural experiences. Right now they were somewhere in India studying yoga and meditation, and Mike could hardly imagine his mother not becoming fixated with the Japanese tea ceremony at some point. She’d already gone through a six month infatuation with flower arranging. The house had been full of sticks and dried berries stuffed in vases.

“I’ll make it weak with jam. That’s the most tolerable for non tea drinkers.”

Mike watched Tilden stir raspberry jam into the dark liquid and slide it across the table. Mike played with his glass. Oddly, Tilden had served the tea in glasses instead of cups or mugs. 

“I’ll reheat some soup for us.” Tilden took a large pot out the refrigerator and set in on the stove. “I can usually manage this. Anything beyond this, I have to call Trent for rescue work.”

Mike didn’t smile at Tilden’s attempt at small talk, but continued to run his finger around the top of his glass. “Can you take me back to my dorm now?”

“No.”

“I’m not you prisoner,” Mike shouted at Tilden.

“No, you’re not, and we’re also not talking to each other across the length of a football field. You needn’t shout. We’ve rescued you twice. I think we’re entitled to a civilized conversation.”

“I didn’t ask to be rescued. You fucking tops just can’t stay out of my life. It’s my life.” Mike raised his voice and banged the table in frustration, sending tea sloshing out his glass.

Tilden tossed Mike a towel. “Wipe it up. It’ll make a ring.”

Tilden was calm, straddling a chair, sipping tea as if guests slopped tea on the table and shouted everyday. Mike was finding the calm maddening. With his parents, they either waved their arms around in exasperation and stormed out or tried to interest him in one of their bizarre hobbies. Mike had never seen the benefit of organic chicken raising or visiting a sweat lodge. 

“I’m going home,” Mike said savagely and threw the towel down on the black and white tile floor.

“Sit down, Misha,” Tilden said in the same calm tone and reached down and picked up the towel. “Please wipe the tea off the table.”

When Mike thought about it later he wasn’t sure what came over him; maybe he wanted to know what Tilden would do. Would he have more staying power than his parents? Mike grabbed his glass of tea, tipped it over, and watched the brown liquid run across the wood of the kitchen table and drip in big drops onto the floor. He turned and hurled the glass; it ricocheted off the refrigerator door and scattered across the floor like a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle spilled from the box. Mike turned toward Tilden expecting a red faced maniac throwing his arms about and shouting; instead Tilden moved his chair enough to avoid the drip of tea and sat watching Mike, his eyebrows raised, but otherwise his expression bland.

“Should I get some more towels and the broom?” Tilden asked in a maddeningly calm voice. 

“Only if you want to clean up. I’m leaving.” Mike shot up from the table and kicked the chair over with a satisfying thump. Tilden had moved quicker than Mike had planned and stood in the doorframe, not menacing, but occupying the space, his legs spread hip width apart, one arm resting on the door jam. Mike hesitated.

“Yes, if you want to get in a knockdown barroom brawl you could probably move me. You’re about my height and a good deal younger. But I have a few kilograms on you and more experience. I’ve been in a few brawls. The fighters were usually drunker, but a lot tougher and more streetwise than you.”

Mike rammed his body into Tilden, swinging wildly. Tilden wrapped his arms around Mike and caught both his wrists. The grip was steady, but not immobilizing.

“If you want to get away, you can. I’m not holding that hard. But I don’t think you want to get away,” Tilden whispered into Mike’s ear.

Mike slumped against Tilden, swearing a blue streak but making little effort to pull away. Tilden herded Mike in front of him; the glass crunched underfoot. Tilden pushed Mike down on the back stairs and sank down next to him, never breaking physical contact.

Mike didn’t know how long they sat. The kitchen clock was out of view, and he’d forgotten his watch. They were still sitting without a word spoken between the two of them when the back door swung open and Milton walked in with Luke. Milton came to a quick halt and grabbed Luke’s arm as he saw the spilled tea, the broken glass, and the two men sitting on the stairs.

“Luke, go up to my room. Use the front stairs.” That was Milton. His voice was soft, a lower pitch than he used when he lectured but frighteningly authoritative. Luke looked at Mike, the concern etched across his face. Milton must have considered the hesitation disobedience because he rapidly landed a swat across Luke’s hip. “Go upstairs,” and then more gently “We’ve got it.” He pushed the hair back off Luke’s forehead in a gesture of surprising tenderness and kissed him firmly. “Go.” With one final look at Tilden and Mike, Luke moved out of the kitchen. 

Milton walked over to the phone and dialed. “May I speak to Trent Long, please.”

“Trent, is Sarah working?... Can you and Mace come home?...OK. Thanks.”

Milton hung up the phone, opened a closet, and dragged out a mop and a broom. “Are you ready to clean this up?” he asked. “I assume Tilden wasn’t throwing tea around in a temper fit.”

“No,” Mike spat. “You have no right.”

“Maybe,” Milton agreed and shrugged his broad shoulders. “But you’re going to clean up the mess. It’s common courtesy. It has nothing to do with us being dominants.”

Mike stared at both professors. He’d always thought that he was stubborn, but Tilden and Milton appeared immobile. “Fine, if you’re going to be such pricks about it, I’ll clean up the damn tea, but you’ve got to let go of my wrists.”

“Of course,” Tilden said. “Thank you.”

Mike swabbed the table with excess force, throwing the sodden cloths onto the floor. He glanced at Milton and Tilden, expecting a reaction, but they were both sitting with their arms folded across their chests, silently watching. Mike was mopping the floor when Trent came in with Mace. Trent must have guessed what to expect because he made no comment except to send Mace upstairs to keep Luke company. Mike wrung the mop out one final time; the tiles gleamed under the kitchen’s fluorescent lighting. Now he wished that he had more to clean. Three tops watching every move unnerved him.

Tilden motioned for Mike to come sit on the stairs again. Trent was sitting on the counter and Milton at the kitchen table. Tilden wrapped his arm around Mike’s shoulder and pulled him into his chest. Mike stiffened but didn’t struggle.

“What now?” Mike muttered. “I’ve cleaned up the mess. Can I go now?”

“No.” It was Milton who answered. “At the very least, we’re owed an explanation.”

“I know my rights; you can’t force me into a relationship, especially this kind.” Mike’s tone was hostile, but he leaned into Tilden’s chest and didn’t flinch when Tilden kissed the top of his head.

“Misha, we won’t force you into anything, but I think we’ve all made mistakes here, especially me,” Tilden said. 

Mike started to interrupt but Tilden hushed him. “No, let me continue. I’ve known your relationship with Luke was more than roommates or fuck buddies, as you guys so crudely put it. I should’ve said this immediately when it became obvious to me.” Tilden took a deep breath and slowly slid his index finger down the side of Mike’s face. “I’m not a romantic, but this is...” Tilden trailed off and bent down and kissed Mike on the lips. “Luke and I would like to become a threesome.” Tilden kissed Mike again, running his fingers through Mike’s short hair.

Mike leaned into the kiss; he couldn’t help himself. Tilden was calm, in control, everything Mike wasn’t. Mike struggled to make sense of his feelings.

Before Mike had a chance to respond, Milton spoke. “You’re upset right now; don’t answer until you’ve heard all we have to say. I think you want to be with Luke and Tilden, but you must tell us in words not actions. Your actions have been screaming for Tilden to intervene, running off to the coast, having a drunk fest, throwing tea all over the kitchen, but you must tell us. If you go with Luke and Tilden, it’s a commitment to a lifestyle that can be unpleasant at times, even frightening. The restrictions can seem oppressive, especially in a household with three dominants, but we would be here for you, and I think that’s what you want.”

“Mike,” Trent said with a quiet smile from the counter top. “I don’t really know you, but I’ve gotten to know Luke the last few days. He’s worried about you. And I know Tilden very well. He’ll take good care of you.”

Milton continued before Mike could speak. “There are other options. I can contact your parents, and you could go stay with them, or I could arrange for you to stay with a neutral dominant in town. I’m not comfortable with Trent or I acting as a neutral top because of your relationship with Luke.”

“Why can’t I go back to the dorm?” Mike asked, even though he made no effort to escape Tilden’s embrace.

“Freshmen aren’t allowed to leave campus,” Milton said.

“No one cares. It happens all the time.”

“I’m sure Dean Tyler wouldn’t be happy if I told him about your little escapade.”

Mike grunted. “That’s blackmail.”

“Hardly.” Milton shrugged. “Make up your mind.”

Mike looked at the three tops. “You expect me to decide my life in an instant. Man, you guys are crazy.”

“No,” Milton said forcefully. “We expect you to verbalize the decision you’ve already made. Our hands are tied until you give us consent.”

“What about Luke?” Mike asked.

Trent slid off the counter. “I’ll get him.”

Mike lay against Tilden’s chest. If he were honest with himself, it was where he wanted to stay, but could he do this? What did he really know about these relationships? A forgotten memory from childhood and sensational articles in _Cosmopolitan_. They would punish him. Luke had to have been punished after Saturday. What had it been like? He looked OK when he ran up the stairs earlier, not maimed. But then how hard could Tilden spank? He was an academic, after all, not a body builder. 

Mike’s disjointed worrying was interrupted by Trent’s return from upstairs. Trent was talking to Luke in low tones, and he had his arm comfortably looped around Luke’s shoulder.

“You’re forgiven, but I’m sure Tilden will have a few thing to say about it.”

“I heard about your little runner,” Tilden said with a smile. “And yes, you’re in trouble for it, but it’s not the end of the world. Let’s go into the study where we can talk more comfortably.”

Luke grinned at Mike. “We better enjoy it. It’s probably the last time either of us are going to sit comfortably for the rest of the evening.”

Luke seemed so carefree, joking about an upcoming punishment, but maybe he was only putting on a brave face. Mike grabbed Luke’s shoulder, shaking him hard. “Are you sure about this?”

“You’d better be staying. I love you, dammit.” Luke drew Mike into a hug, slapping him hard on the back.

“Come on guys. Let’s go talk,” Tilden said softly. He wrapped an arm around each young man’s waist and guided them into the study.

The camera crew followed them toward the study. Tilden turned toward them. “Couldn’t you guys take a dinner break?” Tilden asked. “Mike’s not a part of the show.”

“Sorry, Tilden, you’ve given us the slip all day. We’re not missing this. It’s good stuff,” the taller cameraman said.

“Lionel.” Luke whined. “Can’t you find something else to film, like the rain?”

“No way. We might get an Emmy out of this.”

“We’ll just have to live with it,” Tilden said. “Stay out of the way, and you will have to get out if I do more than talk.”

Mike sank down on the sofa. He pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. Tilden ruffled Mike’s hair as he sat down beside him and looped his arm around each young man. Tilden pulled Mike into his chest, so Mike’s head almost touched Luke’s who snuggled against Tilden’s other side.

“This is nice. A handsome man on either side. How did I get so lucky?”

Mike tried to smile but he expected it came out looking like the forced smile for a passport photo. “What happens now?”

“What do you want to happen?” Tilden asked.

“Don’t you make that decision? You are the top after all,” Mike said, sarcasm seeping into his tone.

“Misha, listen. You’re making the biggest decision of your life right now. You need to make it honestly and openly. I want each of you to answer my questions with a yes or no.” Tilden kissed each brat on his forehead. “Luka, do you want a threesome?”

“Yes.”

“You understand that you must share me?”

“Yes, but I get Mike.”

“Yes or no answers. You love Mike?”

“Yes.”

“Misha, it’s your turn now. Do you want to be in a threesome?”

Mike squirmed around to look at Luke.  

“Mike, please say yes,” Luke pleaded.

“I’m a selfish bastard. I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t do relationships.” Mike squirmed trying to get out of Tilden’s grip.

“You haven’t answered the question,” Tilden said, refusing to release his hold on the struggling Mike. “You can have this if you want it. Nobody will take it away. Trust us.”

“Yes.” Mike choked out. “Dammit, yes I want it. Are you going to make me say that I love Luke? Because I do.” The words came out in a rush with hardly a breath between them. “I want security. I want guidance. I want love. I want to be taken in hand. All the things that books and magazines say are part of the right relationship, all part of the fantasy of the right relationship. But I live in the real world. It’s not going to happen. I have to take care of myself.” Mike wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “I’m not going to cry. It doesn’t help.”

“Mishenka,” Tilden said and stroked the short, dark hair. “I can give you those things. I want to give you love and security, and I’m a real live person. I’m not prince charming; life won’t be happily ever after, but I’ll be here for you. Are we good to do this? Luka? Mishenka?”

“Yes.” Luke’s voice was loud and clear.

“Yes,” Mike said softly into Tilden’s shirt.

“I’ll add my yes,” Tilden said and kissed Mike’s forehead and then Luke’s before he untangled himself from his two partners and went to sit on the desk. “ _Rebyata,_ we’ve got today to deal with before we can live happily ever after.”

Mike looked at Luke. “ _Rebyata?”_

“I don’t know,” Luke answered with a shrug. “Tilden’s big on throwing in Russian words. I think he does it when I’m stressing out. There’s probably some study that says foreign language learning improves with stress.”

“It means guys, kids, brats,” Tilden said. “We need to get back to today. This disappearing act is going to stop and that means both of you. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Luke answered promptly.

“I guess,” Mike said.

“Misha, do you think it’s unfair that you’re in trouble today?” Tilden crossed his legs and settled back against his desk.

“No-—yes, it’s jeopardy after the fact.”

“I think you were doing it to get our attention. Well, you’ve got my attention now, and part of that attention is discipline.”

Mike played with the cuff of his shirt. He was still wearing the borrowed clothes. Tilden was right. He was attention seeking. But he could barely admit it to himself.

“OK, Mike. We’ll talk more in a minute. Luke, what about you?”

Luke kept his eyes down and rubbed his hands against his thighs. “I took off today when I was on restriction, and I got Mace in trouble.” Luke wiped the tear that was sliding down his cheek and cleared his throat.

“Thank you.” Tilden paused before he continued. “Two partners is as new to me as it is to you. I’m inclined to think that it would be best to handle discipline one at a time.” Tilden walked around to the far side of the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out two notebooks. “But first I want to do a little housekeeping. Mike, this notebook is for you. You’ll write the rules of our relationship, any lines I have you do, or other writing assignments. This other notebook stays on the desk in the study. It’s for all of us to write our thoughts or concerns and for all of us to read. Threesomes must communicate with each other. This is new to all of us; you’re going to have to help me.” 

“Luka, are you OK to go sit with Trent and Milton for a few minutes while I discuss things with Mike?”

Luke nodded and got up. “He won’t kill you,” he whispered to Mike as he walked out.

“Misha, are you OK with this?”

How could he answer that? 

“Mike, you have to be an active participant in this. It’s not something I do to you.”

Mike’s stomach clenched, and he drew his long legs into a tighter ball on the sofa.

Tilden moved back to the sofa and with a determined tug pulled Mike so his body partially rested in his lap. “It seems that talking about your feelings is not one of your strong points.”

“Yeah, big strong top got that right.”

“Misha, is that what you want? A he-man top to make you do, to force you. I can make the rules tight, but I won’t force you. You must meet me halfway. Do you understand that?”

Mike couldn’t make himself speak. He knew he was pushing Tilden, but perversely he had to know how far. Would there be a wall?

“I asked you a question, boy.” Two hard slaps landed on Mike’s hip.

Mike gritted his teeth, but refused to answer. Tilden reached under Mike and unbuckled the belt that was holding up the too large, borrowed pants and with a quick tug pulled them down and exposed his boxers. Without a word, Tilden landed two swats on Mike’s exposed thigh.

Involuntarily Mike jerked and hissed.

“You participate in this. Do you understand?”

It was the same question, and now Tilden had his hand resting on Mike’s boxer clad butt. Mike knew it was a warning, but he blew through the caution light and remained silent.

Tilden landed six swats on the identical spot. Mike bucked and reached back. “Stop! It hurts.”

“Are you willing to participate in this conversation, or do you need more time looking at the floor?”

“Yes,” Mike choked. He could feel the tears on his cheek. It hadn’t hurt that much; he shouldn’t be crying. Tilden swept Mike upright and tucked Mike’s head into his chest.

“I’ve got you. You won’t scare me away or push me away.” Tilden rubbed Mike’s back gently, his hand offering wordless comfort.

Mike could feel the tears forming behind his eyes; they cascaded down his cheeks. He was powerless to stop them. Tilden pulled Mike further onto his lap and ran his fingers through his hair, tracing the small gold ring in Mike’s ear.

“Cry all you want. I’ve got you,” Tilden murmured.

Mike didn’t stop crying until his eyes felt stuck together and his throat was sore. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Do what?” Tilden asked softly.

Mike was silent. He couldn’t confess all his follies. 

Tilden flipped Mike back toward the floor and rested his hand on the young man’s thigh. “Do what?” he asked again.

“Fall apart, cry, run away, throw tea on the floor, get Luke in trouble.” The words came out in a jumbled rush.

“Slow down, Mishenka. Let’s talk about this one thing at a time. You’re not in trouble for crying or falling apart. We’ll catch you. You just have to let us and that’s going to be hard for you. A lot harder than it is for Luke. I don’t expect you two to be identical.”

Mike started to struggle on Tilden’s lap, embarrassed by the confession and the indignity of the position.

Tilden landed a hard swat. “Be still. You’re much more talkative when you’re facing the floor, so you’d better get comfortable.”

“This isn’t fair,” Mike muttered. “You’ve got all the advantages.”

“Did I tell you it would be fair?”

“No.”

“Let’s talk about running away and drinking yourself into oblivion. Oh, I almost forgot—smoking mind altering substances.”

“Marijuana’s legal.”

“It may be legal, but it’s a mind altering substance, and you mixed it with alcohol—not very safe, especially when you’re alone. Blatant disregard for your safety will get you paddled every time. What else was on your list?”

“Saturday evening.”

“I think that fits under blatant disregard for safety. One spanking can cover both drinking episodes. In addition, you don’t drink any alcohol until I say so, and you don’t go off on your own.”

“You’re grounding me. It’s college.”

“You’ll live. Anything else?”

“The tea.”

“The temper tantrum in the kitchen. Lines will work for that. I think we’ve got this covered. Do you need to talk more, or are you OK with what’s going to happen?”

Mike was surprised when he heard himself say, “I’m OK with it.” He’d just handed his Russian professor permission to punish—no, not punish—to spank. No use thinking of it euphemistically or abstractly as punishment or discipline. He was getting spanked. It been years since he’d been in this position. Instinctively he gripped Tilden’s leg harder.

“Easy, I won’t kill you. I’m going to paddle you. Have you ever been spanked?”

“Yes.”

“By your parents.”

“No,” Mike snorted. “They’d be mortified to consider it. A parent of a friend, and it was more like a few swats than a spanking.” The scene replayed in Mike’s mind.

 

****

 

The stench was terrible; you couldn’t smell the cop shows on television. That was probably a good thing since their ratings would plummet. The combination of cheap disinfectant, bad coffee, two day old vomit, and urine would not be conducive to the audience’s viewing pleasure. The hardness of the bench was not conducive to his sitting pleasure, and his shoulders were beginning to ache. When the officer had first put the cuffs on, it had been an illicit thrill, but now he wanted to rub his wrists and roll his shoulders. Being released soon seemed unlikely; both the uniformed officers and the plainclothes detectives were engrossed in their computer terminals. A fifteen-year-old would-be letterbox bomber forgotten. 

Mike scooted to the end of the bench and kicked the wall in frustration. The institutional green peeling paint didn’t seem to notice. He kicked harder. 

“Hey, I wouldn’t do that, son.” A giant of a man was staring down at him, a coffee cup dwarfed in his massive paw. 

“I’m not your fucking son. Leave me the fuck alone.”

“Mike, Mike Stoller,” the man said in surprise. “I’m Tommy’s dad. I haven’t seen you in years. It must be six years now. I’d never thought I’d see you here on a Friday night. What’d you do?”

Mike glared at him, trying to bristle with defiance, which was hard when your handcuffed and a huge man was leaning over you talking softly. Tommy had been his best friend in fourth grade before they’d moved again for the umpteenth time. He’d been to their house a few times, even went trick or treating with this giant. No wonder they’d dressed up like cops and robbers; Tommy’s father was a cop. “None of your damn business.”

“You don’t play the tough guy well. Settle down before you get yourself in any deeper.”

Mike seethed as the detective ruffled his hair.

The detective turned to the officer on duty. “Ace, what’d you pick up the boy for?”

“Trying to blow up some mailboxes. Fortunately the bombs were duds.”

“Can’t you reach his parents?

“No, the boys says they’re on some kind of archeological dig with no phone service.”

“Any priors?”

“No, but we’ll have to send him to juvenile hall since we can’t reach a guardian.”

“I’ll vouch for him.”

“You sure?”

“Yep, he’s a friend of my son’s.”

“Suit yourself. Saves the paperwork.”

“Mike, stand up. I’ll cuff your hands to the front. You’ll be more comfortable. I can’t un-cuff you until we leave the station.”

“I don’t want your charity.” Mike then called Tommy’s father every foul name in the book. 

The detective propped one leg up on the bench and waited. When Mike ran out of breath, he spoke again. “That was an impressive list, but my name’s Frank. You called me everything else but that.”

The cops within hearing distance grinned and laughed, and Mike fumed. Frank ignored the whole thing, pulled Mike to his feet, and re-locked the cuffs with Mike’s arms in front. Mike didn’t really remember the details of the rest of the evening in the station. He was towed around after Frank, told to sign various papers, and handed a bottle of water and a packet of pretzels. It was the walk to the car that he remembered in vivid Technicolor.

Frank unlocked the cuffs as soon as they exited the station and put his arm around Mike’s shoulders. “Blowing up mailboxes was a really stupid thing to try to do. You could’ve hurt somebody or worse. That would’ve meant real jail time. What on earth were you thinking?”

Mike spun around and shouted. “Who the fuck cares what I was thinking? You’re not my dad. Leave me the fuck alone.”

“Be quiet, boy.” Frank’s voice was steel, not loud, but it could’ve cut through a wall of granite. Mike was too far gone and took a wild swing at Frank. The next thing he knew, Frank had him in a choke hold, his arms restrained behind him, and bulldozed him to the car where he pushed him down on the hood. The giant landed six blazing fast swats on Mike’s backside.

“That’s enough, little boy. I warned you plenty of times. Now get in the car and be quiet. Frank bundled him into the front seat and secured the seatbelt. Mike was too shocked to move. It had happened so fast he couldn’t react except to wipe the few tears that were running down his cheeks.

 

 

Mike spent the next four months with Frank, his partner Caleb, and the now nearly grownup Tom. It was the best four months of his youth. Frank never swatted him again; he even apologized for the impromptu spanking over the car hood. He said he should never have done it without Mike’s express permission. It wasn’t like he didn’t discipline him the months he lived there. He put him in a corner, sent him to his room, and made him write an infinite number of lines. Just a glare from Frank could make Mike instantly drop his eyes and blush with shame.

It was Caleb, that had really enlightened Mike that summer. He found Mike alone crying in his room after some minor altercation over the dishes that had resulted in a lines assignment. “You OK, Mikey?”

“I hate being called Mikey.”

“I know, that’s why I do it. It gets your attention.” Caleb smiled. It was impossible to get angry with Caleb. He was always smiling and willing to do all kinds of crazy things like race the lawn mowers or have diving contests off bridge piers. All these things made Frank grouchy, and Tom thought they were insane ideas and watched from afar. “You know Frank’s not mad at you?”

“You could’ve fooled me with that scalding lecture and the bazillion lines.”

“He’s a top. He’s reacting to your signals as a brat. It’s just harder with you because he doesn’t think he should touch you since you’re a kid. He’s even hesitant to hug you since you’re not his son. I would’ve gotten swatted for that, but then we could’ve had a good cuddle, and it would be all over. All forgiven.”

“What are you talking about? Your partner, your lover hits you? That’s abuse.”

“You’ve got a lot to learn, kid. He spanks me; he doesn’t punch me, and it’s not abuse. I’m his submissive. I’ve agreed to it. Just think about it because it’s part of you, and it’s not wrong. Finish your lines now, kiddo. Frank will be up in a few minutes to talk to you.”

Neither Caleb nor Frank ever spoke about it that directly again, but Caleb gave him some reading material, and Frank hugged him or ruffled his hair every time after he was punished.

 

****

 

“Stand up.” For a second Mike thought it was Frank’s voice, but it was Tilden’s. “Take you pants off. I’m going to have you lay across my knees on the sofa. With your height, I think we need to support your upper body.”

Mike untied his boots with shaking hands, slid the borrowed trousers the rest of the way down, and folded them over the desk. Tilden pulled a small paddle out of the center desk drawer and set it between his feet.

“You ready?”

“Yeah,” Mike said, taking a deep breath and remembering Caleb’s words about forgiveness and absolution. He hoped this was worth it. The swats fell quick and hard, rapidly turning into a blur of sizzling heat. With the first swat of the paddle, Mike gave up all pretense of stoicism and hollered loudly with every stroke. He swore that drinking, smoking, and running away would never happen again.

Mike didn’t know how long he lay across Tilden’s lap sobbing after the paddling had ended. Tilden ran his fingers though Mike’s hair and whispered endearments in Russian. Tilden shifted so Mike’s head rested in Tilden’s lap and his feet on the sofa. Tilden rubbed Mike’s shoulders and stroked down his back. Mike turned and looked up at his top. He wished he could draw or capture Tilden’s expression forever in his mind. He couldn’t describe it in words, but it was the essence of protectiveness, love, family.

“Do you think you could get up for a few minutes, so I can take care of Luke?”

Mike nodded and let Tilden guide him into the bedroom and change him into a pair of borrowed pinstripe pajamas and then into the bathroom to wipe his face. He didn’t feel ashamed or embarrassed by the care-taking, just cherished. Tilden walked Mike up the two flights of stairs, his arm draped across his young man’s shoulders. 

Up in Trent and Mace’s apartment, Luke was sprawled out on a sheepskin rug watching television, and Mace was wrapped around Trent, mixing something in the galley kitchen. There was a faint smell of allspice and cinnamon.

“Pumpkin muffins,” Trent said with a small smile. 

Milton set the book he was reading on the table and enfolded Mike into his arms. “Come sit with me, so Tilden can have a few minutes with Luke.” Not going with Milton didn’t seem to be an option, so Mike eased down on the brown leather sofa without resistance. Tilden kissed his forehead and reached out a hand for Luke. Luke grimaced but took the offered hand without complaint and trailed his partner out of the room.

“Are you feeling better now?” Milton was serious; he wasn’t teasing. He expected Mike to be feeling better.

Mike took a quick inventory. Physically he felt like death warmed over. There was no getting around the fact that he’d had way too much to drink topped off by a little marijuana, plus Tilden had done a great job torching his butt. A flame thrower couldn’t have done any better. Mike shifted his weight to sit more on his hip. Mentally he felt calmer than anytime since Luke had walked into Tilden’s arms. How had he gotten so messed up?  He’d thought the fling with Luke was a little fun for both of them. He couldn’t have been more wrong, and now he had Luke again or at least sort of. Tilden ran this show. He’d made that obvious. Mike reflexively rubbed his backside.

“I’m not talking about physically. I know you’re sore.” Milton rubbed the back of Mike’s neck.

“Better.” Mike said aloud, but in his mind he added, _Am I crazy_?

“Good. We forced you a bit. I’m glad we made the right choice. Now shut your eyes and try to rest. It’s been a hard few days.”

Mike must have drifted off because he was startled by the sound of a door banging and a briefcase hitting the floor.

“Why are we all hiding up here? Oh, what do we have here? Freshly spanked baby brat.”

“Sheldon, behave.” Milton’s tone carried a clear warning.

“Well, it’s obvious. He’s in his pajamas, and it’s not seven yet, and his eyes are red and swollen.”

“Sheldon, sitting room, now.” Milton’s voice cracked across the room, even the camera guys flinched. “Don’t give me that innocent look. You know exactly what you did. Unless you want me to put on a display for Mace, Mike and the camera crew, walk down those stairs without another word.” Milton turned back to Mike and ruffled his hair. “I’m sorry; I’ve got to go. My partner needs me for a few minutes. Why don’t you stretch out and get some sleep.”

“It’s OK. We’ve got him,” Trent call from the kitchen. “Go take care of Sheldon before he drives us all nuts.”

“I thought we were over the need for a weekly spanking. I guess I can always hope,” Milton said with a shrug.

“Do you really spank him every week?” Mike blurted out. He couldn’t imagine a worse fate.

“Ask him sometime. I only do what he wants.” 

Mike pulled the striped wool blanket tighter around his shoulders. He didn’t understand Milton’s last comment. He was too tired to work out the puzzle and shut his eyes, letting the homey sounds of Trent and Mace lull him to sleep.

 

 

Mike shifted and cracked his eyes open. Sprawled out across the floor in the flickering light of the television were three couples. Trent and Mace were lying side by side, Trent’s arm possessively over Mace’s back. Milton was sitting with his back propped against an armchair sharing a muffin with Sheldon, whose head rested in Milton’s lap, the carrot color hair glowing in the dim light. Luke looked asleep, using Tilden’s shoulder for a pillow. 

Tilden must have noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. “Misha, come down here. There’s plenty of food, and I miss you.”

Mike hesitated and Trent, who was the closest to the sofa, grabbed Mike’s hand and pulled. “You can’t miss the slumber party. It’s not like we do this very often. There’s food scattered all over. Help yourself.”

Mike grabbed a muffin and a couple slices of cheese. “Why are there pickles?”

“That’s Tilden. He loves pickles,” Sheldon said. “He wanted some comfort food after spanking two boys.”

Mike was glad it was dark, so nobody could see him flush.

“Careful,” Milton rumbled. “I could always spank one boy twice.”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” Sheldon mumbled, “Mike, I’m sorry about earlier. I should have been more tactful, you being new and all.”

Mike shrugged. He wasn’t sure how to take Sheldon. He thought he was still being laughed at, but Sheldon had been spanked, and at least from what Milton said earlier this was a common occurrence. “It’s all right,” he muttered

“You accept an apology about as well as Sheldon offers them—lousy,” Mace said, rolling out of Trent’s reach.

“Mace, their bad habits are rubbing off on you,” Trent teased. “Maybe I need to keep that spatula handy.”

Mike sat down next to Tilden but quickly flipped over onto his stomach when his butt made contact with the hard floor. “What are you watching?”

“Some film with a lot of fishing. It was Mace’s pick,” Luke said as if that should explain the fishing choice. 

Tilden rested his hand on Mike’s back. “Are you doing OK?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“You sound surprised?”

“I just never expected to be having a slumber party with four spanked brats.”

“Life is full of surprises.” Tilden hugged both his boys. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The expanded family has its first crisis.

**Meet Your Mate**

**Chapter 8**

 

Tilden sighed. It was Saturday, and both his young men were still sleeping. He’d made it through the end of the week without any unplanned disasters. Ten days with two partners—why did he feel as if he were waiting for the other shoe to drop? Luke’s schoolwork was still a wild ride, and midterm exams started on Tuesday. Both young men were chafing at their grounding and had complained bitterly when he’d sent them to bed at ten last night. Of course, the activities in bed had made the early bedtime a moot point. He was going to need Viagra if they kept it up.

“Your ruffians still getting their beauty rest?” Milton asked as he dumped the grounds into the coffee maker. “Do you want tea?”

“No, I think I need coffee—black, extra strong. I’m the one who needs beauty sleep. I’m starting to feel like a grizzled, old man.” Tilden ran his hand over his freshly shaved jaw.

“They running you ragged?”

“They’ve been very good this week. I think they’re both going to pass Russian. Luke has a gift for languages; he just doesn’t realize it yet, and Mike’s as sharp as a tack.”

“I know. I’ve heard you guys chattering in Russian. Their vocabulary is still minuscule, but Luke’s intonation is spot on. Unfortunately, I don’t think Luke has a prayer of passing the history midterm. It’s a pity too because he’s trying.”

Tilden took a sip of coffee. “He’ll take that hard.”

“I know I’ll try to be as gentle as possible.” Milton squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “I’ll give him an incomplete if I need to, and he can make up the work January quarter. I’ve already run the idea by Jeremiah.”

“He’ll manage. It’s his dad that’s going to be ugly.”

“I’ll talk to him if you want. Having a full professor say that his son’s work is improving and will be up to standard should smooth the way.”

“I hope,” Tilden said with a sigh. “He was most unpleasant on the phone. I called him to let him know his son was living with me as my partner, and I had to listened to a ten minute diatribe on the utter worthlessness of his son and how I as a professor was a fool to saddle myself with an academic failure. Oh well, we’ll cross that bridge when the time comes. I’m waiting for the fireworks this weekend—too much unstructured time.”

“Structure it. Do you want me to take one for the day?”

“No, I think they need to be together. We have an appointment with the show’s producer and writing staff. Adding a third partner wasn’t a predicted complication—a violation of the contract that Luke and I signed. The good thing is it would get rid of those two guys.” Tilden pointed at Dave and Lionel. “Sorry guys. I know you’re just doing your job, but we’d like our privacy back.”

“Unfortunately, they’ll probably bend the rules for you,” Dave said. “Sheldon says this batch has been a disaster. One brat moved out on Monday and another’s been hurt and is on bed rest for two weeks.” 

“Who moved out?” Tilden asked, unable to resist gossiping.

“I don’t know his name, but he was with the surgeon. Supposedly his partner spent twenty hours at the hospital both Saturday and Sunday, and the boy was high maintenance. He high tailed it out of there first thing Monday morning.”

“Probably a good choice. The surgeon seemed very self-absorbed—was bragging to the other doctor. He could’ve at least taken the weekend off.”

“A surgeon is hardly the right profession to be partnered with a demanding submissive.” Milton said with a knowing expression on his face.

“Right from the horse’s mouth,” Tilden teased.

“Careful, careful.” Milton said with a laugh. “Neither of your guys is a walk in the park.”

“I know,” Tilden said seriously. “Do you think I’m doing right by them?”

“You’re doing great, and both Trent and I are here to give you a hand if you need it. Your instincts are good; don’t doubt yourself.”

“Thanks for the pep talk.”

Milton squeezed Tilden’s shoulder. “So when’s your meeting today?”

“Eleven and then I thought we could have a nice lunch and visit the art museum.”

“The art museum?” Milton asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“Mike needs to go for his art history class, I’ll just have to try to keep Luke occupied.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go?”

“We’ll be fine, and I thought you and Sheldon might like a nice quiet day together.”

“You mean a day that he’s not spitting at Mike or tripping over Dave and Lionel.”

“Sorry we’ve got him all wound up.”

Milton playfully smacked Tilden with the newspaper he was reading. “Don’t let Sheldon hear you take the blame for his behavior. He’s more than capable of being responsible for himself.”

“Just the sight of Mike seems to set him off.”

“They’re too much alike.”

Tilden groaned and grimaced. “My life as a martyr.”

“It has its pleasures.” Milton grinned wolfishly.

 

 

Tilden watched the signs at the intersections. He usually only went to the TV station with Sheldon, and he wanted to make sure they didn’t miss their stop. He’d have to remember to give himself more time in the future. Getting his two partners out the door had been more of a challenge than he’d thought. At least breakfast had been uneventful. Trent and Mace were off stomping through the woods somewhere, chasing deer with bows and arrows; without Mace’s calming presence, Tilden had been concerned that Mike and Sheldon might detonate in each other’s faces. But Tilden had been pleased to see Luke step into the role of peacemaker that Mace usually filled and disaster had been averted. Mike’s choice of clothes had nearly foiled their plans. First, he’d tried to dress like a rent boy then in skintight leather pants. Finally in exasperation, Tilden had set out Mike’s clothes on the bed and forced him to change under threat of a spanking. Tilden looked over at his two young men standing shoulder to shoulder hanging onto the center pull of the swaying tram. Mike was right; he did look like a prep school boy dressed in khakis and a regimental striped rugby shirt. In sympathy, Luke had changed his clothes to match, but he’d chosen a dark blue rugby shirt with lighter blue stripes to highlight the color of his eyes. They looked like every parent’s dream of upstanding college students.

Tilden saw the sign for the sixteen hundred block flash by and signaled to his partners to move to the door. At least on the T, you didn’t have to asked the other passengers if they were getting off at the next stop and squeeze around passengers that needed future stations. American public transportation was never as crowded as the Russian transport system even during the worst rush hour. In Moscow or St. Petersburg he would’ve lost one or both of his partners. Here it was difficult enough with both boys alternating between animated conversations between themselves and gawking at the fellow passengers instead of watching for their stop.

They stepped off the tram on a narrow concrete island in the middle of the street as bells clanged and traffic swept by on either side. Both boys darted through the traffic, oblivious to the flashing don’t walk light. Tilden waited and crossed the traffic with a stream of passengers when the light changed. He caught up to Luke and Mike, who were loitering in front of the television building, its marquee illuminated by a multicolor parrot logo and the initials USBC, the United States Broadcasting Company.

“What were you doing back there?” Tilden asked, struggling to keep his voice level.

“Crossing the street,” Mike said with an innocent expression on his face.

“Against the traffic. Do you want to become road kill?”

“God, what are you now—a meter maid?” Mike grouched. “This morning you were the clothes police, now a traffic cop. I’m not three. I think I can cross the street without taking your hand. Maybe the big, bad top needs help crossing the road. Are you afraid of traffic?” Mike’s voice had risen during the spiel, and they were beginning to collect an audience.

Tilden grabbed Mike by the elbow and steered him into the alley between the building and a city parking garage; Luke trailed behind, looking unhappy.

“I’m sorry,” Luke muttered as soon as they were amongst the dumpsters and traffic barrels. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Tilden rubbed the back of Luke’s neck with his free hand. “I’d rather not see you squashed under a car.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” Luke repeated.

Tilden kissed the top of Luke’s forehead. “OK, _druzhok_.”

“Wimp,” Mike muttered between his teeth.

“What?” Tilden asked.

“Nothing,” Mike mumbled.

“Mike, do we have a problem?” 

“Do we?” Mike shot back. “This is fucking idiotic.” Mike tried to pull away.

“All I did was cross the street, and you’re all over me.” 

“Obviously not enough.” Tilden turned Mike and landed six rapid swats. “Is that enough, or do you need more?”

“Jesus!”

Tilden swatted Mike twice more. “I don’t want to spank you in public, but you’re pushing it. I’d tread very carefully if I were you.”

“You weren’t all over Luke like this.”

Tilden swallowed hard and took a deep breath. He didn’t want to have this conversation surrounded by two-day old fast food trash and broken beer bottles. Luke was still within earshot, fingering the lapels of his jacket and looking as if he wished he could vanish. “Luke, are you comfortable going into the station and letting them know we’re going to be a few minutes late?”

Luke nodded, not looking happy but turned on heel and headed toward the station.

“Now are you going to spank me into submission since you’ve gotten rid of our other partner? Big, bad dominant will only beat me up alone?” Mike sneered.

“Is that what you think I do?” Tilden asked softly, not hiding the hurt in his tone. “Do you feel that I’m unfair to you?” Tilden turned Mike to face him, keeping a hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Misha, look at me. Now tell me again how you feel.”

Mike looked up before dropping his eyes back to the ground and kicking a loose pebble across the alley.

“Mike, you just accused me of being abusive and unfair. I think I deserve an explanation.”

“I can’t do this.” Mike wiped his eyes with his sleeve and whirled around to leave.

Tilden caught his wrist. “No, you’re not running away.”

“Let me go. I can’t do this. I’m not your whipping boy. You can get your kicks beating somebody else’s ass!” Mike shouted.

Tilden did the only thing that came to mind. He grabbed Mike and pulled him over his leg, which he’d propped up on an abandoned packing crate, and landed a flurry of swats. He hoped Mike’s shouts wouldn’t attract the city’s finest.

“Stop, you abusive bastard! I told you I don’t want this.”

Tilden froze and hauled Mike to his feet. He reached up to gently wipe the tear from Mike’s face with his thumb.

“Don’t touch me.” Mike flinched, shielding his face with his hands.

“As you wish. You are free to go, but I will not let you take off willy-nilly in the middle of Boston with no money and no car. You will stand here quietly, and I will call someone to pick you up. Can I have your word that you’ll stand here while I make a few calls?”

Mike stood mute; his only response was to shove his hands in his pockets.

“Mike, I asked you a question.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” Tilden took a step back from Mike and placed his free hand behind his back. His conscience warred with itself. As a top, he longed to offer comfort, draw this hurting young man back into his embrace and care, but he’d been told in no uncertain terms do not touch. As a man of honor, he must respect that demand.

Tilden concentrated on his breathing. How had he gone so wrong? Mike had recoiled when he tried to touch him. Tilden punched the numbers on his phone and heard Milton answer. Keeping one eye on Mike, Tilden moved out of earshot and outlined the problem.

“You need to force it. He’s begging you to take a stronger stand.”

“I can’t do that. He told me he wanted out, accused me of abuse, and flinched when I offered comfort.”

“Bullshit! That boy doesn’t know what he wants for breakfast let alone what type of relationship he wants.”

Tilden was silent; Milton never swore.

Tilden heard Milton sigh. Tilden could imagine Milton squaring his shoulders and clenching his jaw; the expression he always wore when sorting out a thorny problem with Sheldon. “I’ll call Jeremiah’s partner, Joshua Martin. He’s been working on the Big Dig, and I think he might be in Boston this weekend. Sit tight, I’ll call you back.”

Tilden leaned against the wall and flipped his phone shut. He tried to dig up faint memories of Joshua. He’d met him at a faculty mixer. All he could remember was a tall man with a deeply tanned face and thick silver hair. He wasn’t even sure if he’d recognize him if he ran into him on the street without his partner. 

“It’s cold out here. How much longer do you expect me to stay here?” Mike rubbed his foot up and down his leg, smearing grime from the alley on his pants.

Tilden’s phone rang three sharp blasts before he managed to hit the answer key.

Tilden had only started to say hello when Milton interrupted. “Joshua was in a meeting only a couple of blocks away. He should be there any minute. Sheldon’s on the phone right now sorting out the mess with the television people and locating Luke. Josh will pick Luke up before he gets you.”

“I’m sorry we’re this much trouble,” Tilden said, cupping his hand over the phone to prevent his voice from carrying to Mike.

“Stop it.” It was the same tone Milton used with a spinning Sheldon, and Tilden’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “We’ve got you covered, and I know you’d do the same for Trent or me, so no fussing.”

Tilden bit back the near automatic “yes, sir” to Milton’s tone and instead made a noncommittal noise of agreement.

“Are you done yet?”

Tilden gave up and clearly enunciated, “Yes, sir.” A brat didn’t stand a chance against Milton, Tilden thought ruefully.

“Thank you, Now get it done.”

Tilden shut his phone and out of the corner of his eye saw Mike quickly turn away and assume a disinterested expression. “Mike, I saw that. Do you want to know what Milton said?”

Mike shoved his hands deeper in his pockets and resumed kicking at the broken asphalt with his toe.

A forest green, dual cab pickup pulled up in the fire lane and a large, silver-haired man climbed out of the driver’s side. He was dressed in pressed jeans, well worn steel-toe boots and a blazer with a matching tie. Milton must have pulled him out of work. Great, Tilden thought, can I inconvenience every top in Massachusetts?

“Mike, get in the truck. Luke’s already in the back. You can ride up front with me.” Joshua’s voice cracked through the air, probably the long experience of directing men over the rumble of construction equipment.

Mike stood frozen as if considering not moving for a moment then walked with an artificial air of nonchalance and climbed into the cab. 

Joshua closed the door behind Mike. “Boys,” he said to Tilden. “You’ve got your hands full.” Joshua smiled easily. “Well, this beats the meeting with the governor and cost projections. If I saw one more pie-chart, I was going to go cross-eyed.”

“Thanks,” Tilden said. “I don’t know what to say. I hate to mess up your day.”

“Stop. Don’t apologize. I haven’t played with rampaging submissives for years. This will be fun.” 

Tilden grimaced. “Your idea of fun is different from mine.”

“Come on. We’ve got work to do.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike tries to understand his role in the relationship.

 

**Meet Your Mate**

**Chapter 9**

 

Mike curled into the passenger door and blinked back tears. The driver of the truck hadn’t said anything except to introduce himself and to tell Mike to buckle his seat belt. His expression wasn’t hostile, but he had an unwavering stare when he’d looked Mike up and down as he pulled out into the traffic. Mike wished he was in the back, leaning on Tilden’s shoulders with Luke. Tilden was whispering to Luke in what sounded like a mixture of Russian and English with his arm snug around Luke’s shoulder. Mike shivered and pulled his hands back into his jacket sleeves. Joshua, or should it be Mr. Martin, turned up the heat and pointed the vents toward the passenger side. Mike curled tighter against himself. If it’d been Tilden—or even Trent or Milton, they would’ve given him their jacket. Would that ever happen again?

Tears started to course down Mike’s face. He scrubbed at his cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket. He’d done it again, made everybody hate him. His parents crossed oceans to escape him, and now Tilden was handing him to a complete stranger. Mike buried his head in his arms and sobbed.

“Stop it, boy. You’re going to make yourself sick.” A strong arm pulled the back of Mike’s jacket, drawing his face out of his arms. “Deep breaths, now. Hands on your knees and sit up.” The voice was gruff, but not unkind and a lot quieter than it had been on the street. “We’re almost there.”

Where was “there”? Mike wondered bleakly, mechanically following the instructions. Campus was almost an hour away. Was Tilden going to leave him with this man? Mike didn’t have any more time to think about it as the truck slowed and pulled to the curb in front of a high-rise apartment building.

Dean Tyler yanked open the passenger door nearly before the truck had come to a complete stop. “Mike, come with me.” Mike was enveloped in a crushing hug and lifted from the truck’s seat as if he were no heavier than a stuffed bear. He shamelessly buried himself in the hug. Under those thick arms, he was hidden from the disapproving glare of the tops and Luke’s soulful eyes. 

“He doesn’t deserve your sympathy,” Martin said. The hard granite tone was back in his voice.

“He’s scared, and he’s young.” Dean Tyler tightened his arms around Mike.

“He’s also a liar and accused his top of the worst possible crime. He violated the trust that must exist between partners.”

“Josh, isn’t that a little harsh? He’s new.”

“No, it’s not. Take him upstairs; I’m not having this conversation on the street.”

Mike remembered the horrified and sad look on Tilden’s face when Mike had accused Tilden of abuse and when he’d flinched at Tilden’s touch. Mike had been angry, frustrated at all the rules; he’d lashed out, said things he didn’t mean. Mike’s knees buckled, and he fell hard against Dean Tyler, sobbing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it,” Mike choked out in a voice he was sure was incomprehensible from the sobs and the sweater that Mike burrowed his face into.

“Get him up to the apartment,” Martin barked from somewhere behind Mike. “I don’t want to explain to every nosy pedestrian why I have a hysterical young man on the sidewalk.”

“You don’t have to be so hard on him,” Dean Tyler said over the top of Mike’s head.

“Up!” The word was like ice. 

Dean Tyler half-carried, half-walked Mike through the revolving glass doors. Mike kept his face buried in the big man’s chest, but he still caught a glimpse of the slack mouth on the doorman as he scurried to hide his embarrassment by summoning the elevator. Mike shut his eyes. Perhaps if he couldn’t see, this wasn’t happening to him—except that he could feel Dean Tyler’s warm embrace and hear Martin’s hard, angry footsteps behind him. Could he just start today over again?

Dean Tyler set Mike down as he fished for his keys on a long lanyard complete with a Rubik’s cube and a mini calculator. Mike stumbled into the apartment when Joshua Martin put his hands on Mike’s shoulders and pushed.

“Keep walking. We’re having a little chat.”

Well, great that sounded promising. While Mr. Martin was not as physically enormous as his partner, he was no small man, and he was propelling Mike rapidly down the hall and into a bedroom. Mike guessed it was a spare bedroom as it only held a double bed; he couldn’t imagine how those two large men could fit in a double. Mike didn’t get a chance to see the rest of the room as he was firmly guided into a corner with nothing to see but the flat white paint universal to apartment complexes.

“Give me your jacket. Stand there and calm down.” The tone was still glacial, but Martin gently ran his hand down Mike’s back before he stepped away. 

Between sobs, Mike heard the bed creak and the thunk of shoes hitting the floor before a louder creak of the box springs. Mr. Martin must have lain down, leaving Mike to stare at the paint all alone. Mike turned his shoulders and glanced behind him. He saw nothing before Martin’s voice cracked through the air.

“Back around. Eyes on the corner.”

Mike leaned his head against the wall and tried to stifle the tears. Where were Tilden and Luke? Had they gone home, leaving him with this silent, disapproving stranger? He heard a tap on the door, the sound of a table being slid across the floor, and then the clank of a tray against a hard surface. He could hear a few low whispers; the voice was not Tilden’s or Luke’s and then a slightly louder, “That’s enough,” followed by footsteps and the door closing again.

Mike turned slightly, hoping to be invited out of the corner.

“Don’t you know how to stand in the corner, boy?”

Mike turned back around, not caring that fresh tears were streaming down his cheeks. He was alone, so alone. Even tea would be better than the corner. Mike hated tea—tea with jam, tea with sugar, tea with milk, tea with lemon. It was all the same—awful. Tilden loved tea; maybe he’d been mixed up at birth, and he was supposed to grow up in the British Isles. Whoever got up first had to turn on the samovar; at least it was electric. There were some small favors in this world. Every morning Tilden would ask, _“Chai budesh’ pit’?”_ Luke, the good little brat, would always have tea, and Tilden would flash him one of those brilliant half smiles that made Mike gasp. Mike always declined which was followed by a brisk nod and a glass of juice. God, he’d drink buckets of tea just to see Tilden smile again. Mike wanted Tilden right now more than he could have ever imagined. He craved Tilden’s touch, even if it meant Tilden’s gentle hand on his shoulder would be followed by a five alarm fire on his ass. 

Mike rubbed his eyes. He’d thought running out of tears only happened in sappy books, but he’d cried himself hoarse and his eyes dry.

“Are you ready to talk?” The voice was softer, not exactly sympathetic, but not cold and barren.

“Yes, sir.” It came out more as a croak.

Martin was sitting at a small table that Mike hadn’t noticed before. He was leaning back in a chair, sipping tea. “There’s cocoa for you. I was told you don’t like tea. Jer does cocoa right, so there’s whipped cream and chocolate shavings.”

Mike froze; the small kindness unleashed a wave of guilt. Standing in the corner, he’d resigned himself to obeying this fearsome stranger, but he hadn’t expected kindness.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like chocolate either?”

Mike shook his head. He couldn’t find words, and his tongue felt swollen and uncoordinated.

“Sit down, boy. We have a lot to cover.”

Mike sat down and wrapped his hands around the freshly poured mug of cocoa.

“Now, do you want to tell me what happened?”

Mike tried to hide his unsteadiness and embarrassment by spooning whipped cream into his cocoa and sprinkling chocolate on the top like volcanic ash drifting to the ground. He expected there was going to be more than volcanic ash in a few seconds. Martin’s voice had been softer, but his jaw was still tightly clenched, and his eyes were watchful. 

“Do you want me to tell you what I think happened?”

Mike nodded.

“I think you were angry, and you said some things you didn’t really mean, which triggered a cascade of events that quickly spiraled out of your control.”

Mike nodded again, keeping his eyes on the tablecloth.

“How much do you know about the history of these relationships? I’m not talking about relationships that only take place on the weekend or at a play party. I’m talking about the few men who allow the power exchange to bleed over into their everyday life.”

Where did that question come from? Mike raised his head and looked closely at Joshua Martin for the first time. Martin was sitting at the far side of the table, his long legs crossed in front of him, his feet in gray rag-wool socks, his tie removed and his collar unbuttoned around his thick neck. Most noticeable was his expression of concentrated mildness as if he were controlling intense emotions. “Not much,” Mike muttered when he realized that Martin was not going to continue until he answered.

“That’s what I thought. It at least makes it more understandable.” 

Makes what more understandable? Mike thought. He wasn’t given any additional time to ponder the statement before Martin fired a new question at him.

“Has Tilden ever physically abused you?” The question was asked with a hard sting as if it were painful to force the words out.

“No, sir.”

“Has he ever mentally abused you?”

“No, sir.”

“You realize that you accused him of those things?”

“I was angry.” Mike cursed himself. He sounded like a child, making excuses for failing to take out the trash.

“I don’t care if you were angry. You do not accuse your partner of abuse. Not unless you truly believe you’ve been abused—never because you’re angry. Do you understand me?” Martin roared, leaning across the table.

Mike shrank back. “Yes, sir,” he whispered.

Martin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You have no idea what you did, do you, son?  You’ve accused your partner of the worst possible crime, violated a sacred trust between the two of you.” Martin’s voice was now weary with a sad, wistful quality.

Mike shifted in his chair and studied the tablecloth. Oddly it was a tiny flower print, something that he’d heard called country French, a curious choice for two men.

“Mike, keep your eyes on me and listen.” Martin slapped the top of the table with his palm. “I’m going to explain this to you, and God help you if you ever do it again.

“The type of relationship you have with Tilden has been around for centuries, sometimes in the open, sometimes hidden in such a veil of misinformation that the historical record is difficult to follow. It’s from the Greeks and Romans where the earliest records are the most clear. The relationship was in the guise of the tutor and his disciples or students. These students were at the mercy of the tutor, expected to be loyal and obedient. In exchange, the tutor was to provide security, guidance, education, and—while it was not codified into law—love. Penalties for disobedience could be draconian, at least according to our standards. However, the worst penalty was reserved for those who accused their tutor or in more common parlance their top of improper action without cause. Disciples could be sold as slaves or in later times sent to the stadia as bait for the gladiators. In exchange for this control over their disciple’s life, the tutor was held to a high standard of behavior. Abuse of a disciple would lead the tutor to be ostracized within the community at the very least, and it seems clear from the historical record that other tutors frequently took matters into their own hands. Later in Roman times, a tutor could lose his status and be demoted to the slave class for improper action. 

“Records were lost as the great wave of barbarism followed by plagues and an excess of religiosity swept over Europe. As the Renaissance approached, the relationships reappeared under the guise of master and apprentice or knight and his liegeman. As always, honor and trust were valued above all else in a relationship. The young swordsman on bended knee in front of his knight receiving his blessing is the quintessential image of the period and of the responsibility of both parties to each other. The circle of trust was complete between the two. The knight with his sword and horse as sworn before his king to protect God, king, country, and his liegeman who through his labor and love protected his knight. It was the liege who shined the armor, kept the swords sharpened, and carried the water across the battlefields between charging stallions. The knight would sweep his liege onto his horse, shielding the un-armored liege from crossbows of the enemy.

“Later during the Enlightenment and the period of the great thinkers, many of the famous revolutionaries followed the same pattern. The relationships were well covered as church and society frowned upon the relationship. The private diaries are rife with references to the steadying influence of my partner or coconspirator. In Russia more than a few tops went to the far corners of Siberia defending their partners and their lovers. It’s from this period that the clearest records are kept especially from Russia where there is both a tradition of extensive diary keeping and tolerance of homosexuality among the gentry. It’s in this period that the code by which we live was recorded to be passed down through the generations. It’s in this time that the rights of the boy as we understand them today became codified. This was the period where the rights of man became more fully annunciated-—the end of serfdom, the end of slavery, the revolutionary movements. The young men who chose the submissive role could no longer be owned or forced but freely gave their submission. They volunteered to enter a relationship guided by rules that no longer guided the rest of society, a relationship with penalties for both partners if certain rules were crossed. Milton can tell you a lot more about it.” Martin sat back and took a drink of tea. “Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

“I think so,” Mike said softly. “Tilden considers himself my protector, and in exchange for this protection I must obey.”

“Partially. As a modern top, I consider myself a partner, protector, lover, guide. I’m sure Tilden has similar expectations. What do you think your role is?”

Mike toyed with the handle of his mug. Why did they insist on constantly talking about these things? This whole thing was probably over anyway. Couldn’t he just go back to being Mike, the slutty bottom? He’d been offered more, and he’d blown it.

“Mike, I don’t know what Tilden does, but I don’t tolerate not answering.”

“What was the question again?”

Martin’s brows furrowed and he intentionally leaned across the table into Mike’s space. “Do you need more time in the corner, little boy, or maybe I should do this with you hanging over my lap?”

“No, sir, but I don’t remember the question.” Mike swallowed hard, wondering if he was going to be facing the floor.

“Dammit boy! I’m trying to rescue your relationship, and you’re off in la-la land. Come here, boy.”

Mike got up and crossed the short distance to Martin. He swallowed nervously, expecting to be pulled over the older man’s lap.

“Sit down on the floor, cross-legged. Lean your back against my knees.”

What? Mike thought. Why does he want me to sit on the floor?

Mike felt a hand on his shoulder and then a hard swat across his rump. “It’s not your job to analyze my instructions. Do it.”

Mike scrambled to get down on the floor. That had hurt. Martin might be in his sixties, but he still had a powerful swing.

“Now, what were we talking about, boy?”

“My role in the relationship.” It was easier to talk down here. There was a comfort in leaning against another human, and there was no need to make eye contact. There was also the swift physical reminder of what would happen if he didn’t answer the questions. Had Martin put him on the floor to punish him, or had he done it to help?

“Ah, you don’t have short term memory loss. So what do you think?”

“To obey,” Mike said tentatively.

“That’s part of it but only a fraction of your role. I’ve been with Jer for over thirty years; I hope I get more out of it than obedience.”

“Love?”

“Good boy.” Martin briefly stroked the back of Mike’s neck. “Do you love Tilden?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why are you in a relationship with him if you don’t love him?”

“I didn’t say that. I don’t know what I feel.”

Martin placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder, offering a calm comfort. “Have you ever been in love? I’m not talking about in lust or about an infatuation with somebody.”

“I’m in love with Luke.”

“How do you know?”

What kind of question was that? You were just in love. Mike flinched as Martin flicked the back of Mike’s neck with a finger.

“I asked a question, boy. Describe your relationship with Luke without using the word love.”

The more explicit directions helped. “He’s fun. I like being with him. I miss him when he’s not here. He’s great in bed. Gorgeous, sexy, full of bounce.”

“OK, what about Tilden?”

“Caring, calm, bossy.”

Martin chuckled and ruffled Mike’s hair. “He’s a top. How else would you describe him?”

“Um—dedicated.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s meticulous about preparing for class. He even asks our opinion about how he explained something in class, and we’re the worst Russian students ever.”

“How about at home?” Martin prompted.

“He spends a lot of time explaining stuff. Even when he’s going to lay down the law, he tries to get our agreement first.”

“That sounds fair.”

“He’s always fair.”

“You accused him of bullying and worse. It doesn’t sound like he’s that type of guy.”

“He’s not. I’m an ass. Why don’t you just say it?” Mike buried his face in his hands.

“No you’re impulsive; you don’t manage your anger well, and I think you had no idea of the ramifications of your words or actions. You told Tilden that you didn’t trust him, that he harmed you and not to touch. You accused him of violating your trust in a relationship that must be based on absolute trust. I don’t think you meant any of these things.”

“I didn’t.”

“No matter how strong the top is, this relationship depends on you voluntarily submitting to the top’s will. Sometimes it will be a struggle. We expect that; it’s not easy to surrender your will to another, but we expect you to try. Accusing your partner of abuse and flinching from his touch is declaring that you are abandoning the relationship. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, I violated his honor too...” Mike’s voice trailed off as he realized what he’d done. 

“Yes.” Martin bent down and kissed the top of Mike’s head.

“That’s what the history lesson was about?”

“Yes.”

“What’s going to happen now?”

“Traditionally punishment for this is harsh, but I don’t think Tilden’s heavy handed, do you?”

“No. What would you do?”

“It’s not my choice, but I’d make sure you understood how many rights and privileges you’d had by taking them all away—a symbolic reduction in status.”

“Do you think that will happen?”

“Milton is well versed in the history of these relationships, and I expect Tilden is as well. They’ll know how to handle it. It’s not your job to worry about it. Take the punishment and the mercy. Forgiveness will follow.”

“Yes, sir.”

Martin drew Mike to his feet. Mike immediately buried himself against the older man’s chest. “Come on. You belong in someone else’s arms.” Martin pushed Mike back down the hall in the reverse of the forced march they’d made earlier. This time the pace was slower and the touch gentler. 

The living room was crowded with people. Luke and Tilden were on the sofa neither sitting or lying, but somehow entwined with each other so the beginning of one and the start of the other couldn’t be discerned. Dean Tyler was perched in an armchair, flipping through a coffee table book of celebrity homes, and Trent was in the opposite armchair pretending to watch a college football game. Tilden turned his head toward the approaching men, his almost violet eyes questioning. Mike slipped out from underneath Martin’s hands and hurried across the small space of the living room before he hesitated at the edge of the sofa. Tilden held his hand out but made no effort to touch.

“Please,” Mike whispered and grabbed the proffered arm as if it were a life raft on the high seas. 

Tilden’s hand closed firmly around Mike’s wrist and he pulled, tumbling Mike onto the sofa.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tilden and Mike continue to negotiate their relationship.

**Meet Your Mate**

**Chapter 10**

 

They were back in the kitchen, Tilden with his ever present cup of tea, and Trent perched on the countertop as if it were a fence rail. Milton stood, his hips propped against the oven, his arms crossed. The scene was reminiscent of Mike’s arrival in the house less than two weeks ago, but this time the tops looked grimmer, and Mike wasn’t curled against Tilden, but alone on a kitchen chair in the middle of the floor. Mike suspected they pulled the chair away from the table to prevent him the luxury of covering his face with his arms. Tilden had kept his arm around him on the way home, but now he was isolated. There was no way to escaping their concentrated stares.

“So what are we doing here?” Tilden finally asked. There was no friendly diminutive, no touch of his hand on his hair, just a cold, hard question.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I was angry,” came tumbling out of Mike’s mouth like a cork bobbing in a waterfall.

“One sentence at a time,” Milton ordered.

Mike swallowed hard. They were going to strip him bare. He couldn’t hide behind hurried platitudes or escape their burning eyes. 

“Tell us. We at least deserve that much.” That was Trent. He’d always seemed the most easy going of the tops. Trent ambled around in worn jeans and flannel shirts, always quick to give anyone a small smile. His relationship with Mace was relaxed; they always seemed comfortable in each other’s back pocket. In the kitchen, they cooked with one another, often leaning over each other whisking or chopping.

“I was angry.”

“Why?” Trent asked.

“Stupid things.” 

“That’s not an answer,” Milton growled.

“Clothes, breakfast. It was stupid.”

Milton crossed the two strides from the stove to Mike, pulled him up, and landed two hard swats. “Answer. Don’t evade by calling things stupid.”

“I didn’t know we had an issue about breakfast,” Tilden said. “I though you were just making your usual noise.”

“What happened at breakfast?” Milton asked.

“I didn’t want any. I’m tired of this three meals a day schtick. I’d like to have cold pizza occasionally for breakfast like a normal college student.”

“So you had a bit of a spat about breakfast. What did Tilden fix?”

“Hard-boiled eggs, toast, and cooked apples.”

“That sounds innocuous enough. I made the apples,” Trent said, “so it couldn’t have been too bad.”

Mike squirmed in the chair, biting his lower lip.

“Go on,” Trent prodded.

“Luke’s not crazy about breakfast either. But he makes it look so easy, a gentle smile and a “yes, sir” when Tilden asks anything. I can’t do that.”

“Did I ever ask you to?” Tilden asked as if he were asking do you prefer chocolate or strawberry ice cream. No hostility, just curiosity.  

That was the rub; he never had. Tilden had just make breakfast and let Mike spit and hiss. “What about the clothes? I’m not a good little preppy.”

“I know,” Tilden said calmly. “But you are more than a cheap slut, and more importantly you’re mine. I don’t want to fight off hordes of salivating men because you’re dressed like an advertising poster for availability.”

Mike swallowed hard. He hadn’t thought of that; he’d thought Tilden was just throwing his weight around, exercising control.

“Do you understand what happened today on the street?” Tilden asked.

“I accused you of abuse and told you I wanted out and you respected that. I’m sorry; that’s not what I meant.”

Tilden kissed the top on Mike’s head. “I know that now, but I’m your protector. This type of relationship can easily slide into abuse and with the power I hold I must always be vigilant.”

“I didn’t mean it. I was just angry.”

“We know that,” Milton said in a deep quiet voice, “but we can’t protect you if we can’t trust your word. You didn’t safeword, but out of a scene we must listen for all indication that we have gone too far. What you said Tilden saw and heard as the final safeguard against committing abuse. A fail safe that must never be touched unless it’s real. You accused your partner of a crime.”

How could he answer that? He’d only wanted some breathing room, some way to vent his frustration. He’d been pushed around by a lot of people who said they would be there for him and disappeared when the going got rough. Mike remembered being abandoned on the doorsteps of numerous friends and relatives with a promised return of one or two weeks.  A month would pass, and Mike would fight with their children, steal a car, or simply refuse to participate in their activities, and he would be shuffled to some other unsuspecting stranger’s house. Sometimes he was dragged off with his parents when all the free lodging was used up. But there he was just inconvenient baggage to be shuffled from a tent city in Mozambique feeding the hungry to an artist colony in the mountains of New Mexico. He hadn’t expected these three tops to be any different.

Mike turned at the noise of Tilden rummaging through a drawer. Oh God, I’m going to get paddled, Mike thought. It’s not like I don’t deserve it. Instead of a dreaded implement, Tilden pulled out a packet of construction paper, a pair of blunt nosed scissors that looked like they belonged in a kindergarten, and a package of markers. Mike couldn’t see what Tilden was writing but he quickly finished and handed it to Mike. In large block letters was written EXIT, and underneath it was signed Tilden Blake.

“Keep this in your wallet. Since you say things in anger you don’t mean, we won’t be listening. If any time you want out of this relationship, you hand this to me; or if for some reason you can’t give it to me, give it to Milton or Trent.” 

Mike fingered the yellow construction paper with the single word in broad, dark marker. If he handed it to one of the tops, he was out, no questions asked. The absolute finality of a single piece of paper was frightening. Mike folded the paper in half and then in half again, carefully making each crease, and tucked it in his pocket.

“This leaves us only today to deal with,” Tilden said. “I see this as a temper tantrum. I believe your intention was to hurt me with your words, but not to impugn the honor or tradition of this relationship.”

Mike hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he let it out with a hiss.

“You will be spanked, but more arduous for you will be the additional restrictions. This tantrum began because you felt you were being subjected to my arbitrary whims; for the next two weeks, you will be. You will do nothing without asking my permission, or if I’m absent, Milton’s or Trent’s. I will chose what you wear, what you eat, where you sit, who you talk to—-all things in which you’ve had significant input. A symbolic decrease in status. Now stand up and drop your trousers.”

Mike looked at the three tops. “Are they staying?”

“Yes, pants off.”

Mike fumbled with his belt and slid his khakis to his ankles. They caught on his shoes; he’d forgotten to take his shoes off. He knew cheeks were a bright red as he finally kicked his shoes off and stepped out of his trousers. Tilden had taken the seat in the chair while Mike had struggled with his pants. He motioned Mike to come stand on his right side.

“Please, please don’t do this in front of them.” A stray tear dripped down Mike’s face.

“Mike, this is not about embarrassing you, but you are responsible to them also and your actions hurt them.” Tilden pulled Mike over his knees and rubbed his back. “Deep breaths.”

Mike didn’t even try to stop the tears as he hung over Tilden’s knees. He pressed his hands onto the smooth tile floor. Tilden spread his knees, trying to give Mike a more stable platform and placed his hand under Mike’s shirt, slowly rubbing. 

“Easy now,” Tilden murmured and pulled Mike’s boxers down. 

Mike lay over his top’s knees and waited. The first swat landed hard and fast. Mike didn’t count as the tears poured down his face. The swats stung, but they weren’t overwhelming. Mike was limp over his top’s lap and didn’t realize that Tilden had finished until he pulled Mike’s boxers up and set him on his feet. 

“ _Vsyo khorosho, Misha?”_

Mike leaned into Tilden. He wasn’t sure he understood the Russian but just to hear the Russian again...

“Come on, let’s go lie down.” Tilden wrapped his arm around Mike’s shoulder and shepherded him into the bedroom. 

Between the tears, Mike noticed that Milton and Trent had melted away. “They’re gone.”

“I’m sure they wanted to give us some privacy, Mishenka.”

Mike let Tilden guide him into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. He rubbed at his rump. It didn’t sting much and didn’t feel hot. “You didn’t spank me very hard.”

“Who decides on the punishment?” Tilden asked, resting his hand on Mike’s butt.

“You do.”

“ _Maladets,_ ” Tilden kicked off his shoes, lay down in the bed, and pulled Mike’s head into his lap. “Do you understand what today was about?” Tilden traced the bottom of Mike’s hairline with his fingers.

“Yes,” Mike mumbled, lulled by the stroking and Tilden’s heartbeat.

“As far as we’re concerned it’s over and done with except the two weeks on restriction. You’re going to find that hard, and I don’t expect perfection.” Tilden kissed the top of Mike’s head. “Now, go to sleep.”

 

****

 

Tilden stayed with Mike until he was asleep, stroking the short brown hair. Poor kid, he’d had a rough day today. Tilden got up, waiting to make sure that Mike didn’t wake before he left the room. He stretched and yawned as he walked into the kitchen. He needed coffee.

Milton was in the kitchen, a sheaf of term papers in front of him. “Why didn’t you take a nap? You look dead on your feet.”

“That’s a resounding vote of confidence.” Tilden made no effort to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. After his carefully measured words with Mike, it was nice to let his first thought slide off his tongue. “I’ve got Luke too. Is there any coffee?”

“In the pot, but you’re going to crash like a rock.”

“I’m capable of knowing how much coffee I can drink.”

“You sound like Sheldon.” Milton smiled and reached behind him for a mug. “Here, have your poison. If you want to pick a fight with me, you’ll have to try harder than that.”

“Sorry,” Tilden threw Milton a rueful smile. “I think I’m more stressed than I realized.”

“Yep.”

“Is that all you’re going to say? You sound like Trent.”

“Yep.”

“Can I kill you now? When I want advice, you do the strong, silent routine.”

“Luke’s fine—probably watching football. Go for a run. Do something for yourself. Get changed. I’ll go with you.”

“You hate running.”

“The exercise will do me good.” Milton patted his stomach. “I don’t want to get a middle age paunch.”

“What if Mike wakes up?”

“Stop being a mother hen. Trent will keep an eye on him.”

“Four brats.”

“Trent can handle it. Plus, I don’t think Mike will wake up; he looked shattered. Leave him a note just in case.”

 

For early November it was a surprisingly pleasant day. The sun filtered through the bare branches as they jogged along the old towpath trail. A few runners pushed bundled up toddlers in aerodynamic prams; an occasional couple strolled down the trail, enjoying the unusual November sun. As they loped back, past the recreated lock and town’s small historical museum, Tilden began to relax, the tension lines easing from his face.

“You look like you’re feeling better. Good—because I’m about to die here,” Milton panted. “I’ll take swimming any day.”

“Old man,” Tilden joked.

“Who are you calling old? Just because you’re still on the south side of forty.”

Tilden eased to a walk and leaned against a tree to stretch his hamstrings. “I’m sure I seem ancient to Luke and Mike.”

“They don’t seem too concerned. They’re both over twenty, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Luke was held back and did a P.G. year after high school, not that it helped much, and Mike’s parents jerked him around to different schools so frequently that he ended up held back, and then he drifted around South America last year.”

“Not used to answering to anyone, is he? No wonder he’s struggling. You realize he’ll fight the restrictions after a few days.”

“I know. Was the restriction the right thing, or should I’ve paddled him and been done with it?”

Milton rubbed his hands together before shoving them in his jacket pocket. “It’s cold now that we’re walking. I don’t know Mike that well, but I think you did the right thing. He’s desperate for boundaries, even though at first, he’s going to rebel.” Milton paused a minute. “You’re going to have to be firm if he even steps a millimeter over the line. I expect a few days of royal drama.”

“Sounds like fun,” Tilden said with a snort. 

“If I’m not mistaken, the worst is over.” Milton looped an arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s get back before your sleeping monster wakes.”

 

****

 

Mike stirred and opened his eyes. Tilden was propped up, papers strewn over the comforter. Luke was at the foot of the bed, curled around a history text. Both must have been watching for the first sign that Mike was awake because Tilden gave him a small smile and slid his fingers through Mike’s hair, and Luke bounced onto his chest like an overexcited Labrador puppy.

“Are you OK? You’re still here?” Luke babbled on. Half of what he said made no sense, but the sentiment was obvious.

“Yeah, I must need my head examined.” Mike rolled onto his side and swung his legs to the floor.

“Where are you going?” There was a bite to Tilden’s voice that made Mike jerk his head up.

“To the bathroom. I’ve got to piss.”

“Ask first.”

“What?” Mike didn’t try to hide the incredulity in his voice.

“Do you need a reminder of what we talked about earlier?”

He was serious. Mike shrugged and tried to sound bored or casually put upon. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

“You may. Then right back in bed for thirty minutes.”

“I’m tired of being in bed.”

“I can make it an hour.”

Mike could see Luke’s eyes moving between his face and Tilden’s as if he were a spectator at Wimbledon watching a fantastic volley. It was probably only the concern and tension in Luke’s face that kept Mike from lobbing a swift retort at Tilden. Instead he swallowed hard and muttered, “Yes, sir.”

Tilden nodded. “Leave the door open.”

That was over the top. He didn’t need to be watched in the bathroom. He did know how to piss on his own. Mike tore the sheets back and flung himself out of bed. He made it one step toward the bathroom when a hand grasped his elbow and pulled him sideways. Tilden landed two blazing handprints on Mike’s boxer covered bottom.

“Attitude.” Tilden didn’t let go of Mike’s elbow, but walked him into the bathroom and propped himself against the door. 

“Are you going to watch?” Mike asked savagely.

“Quickly.”

Mike turned back to the toilet; Tilden had lost his mind. He didn’t need supervised bathroom breaks. Mike blushed; if Tilden wanted a show, he’d give him one. Slowly he slid his boxers down his hips and waggled his hips. He stroked his cock with one hand, and with the other hand reached under his shirt to finger his nipple ring. Mike was lost in the sensation when a hard swat crashed down on his naked rump, and he was propelled towards the shower stall. Cold water came rushing over his head.

“Don’t play with me, little boy.” Tilden hauled Mike from the shower. “Strip. Here’s a towel. Should we try this again?”

Mike nodded, subdued by the cold shower.

“You don’t have to make things this difficult, but if you need to, I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere, Mishenka.”

Mike completed his chores in the bathroom and without a fuss changed into dry boxers and a sweatshirt.

“Thirty minutes in bed.”  Tilden must have noticed Mike’s stiff posture because he growled at him, “I wouldn’t.”

Mike crawled back into bed, deciding not to risk another swat, especially after catching Luke’s concerned look. He turned on his side and punched down the pillows.  He wanted out of bed. He tried turning the other way. 

Tilden who’d sat on the edge of the bed, gathered his papers and sighed. He touched Mike’s shoulders, running two fingers slowly down his back and started to sing in a soft baritone. “ _Spi, mladedenets moy prikrascnii, Bayushki-bayu...”_

Mike started to move away, but the soft voice and the slow stroking stilled his movement. He breathed deeply, absorbing the calmness; the only sound was the singing; the only sensation was Tilden’s fingers tracing lines down his back. When Tilden finished, Mike rolled toward Tilden, trying to find a way to ask him to sing again. 

Tilden stroked a finger down Mike’s cheek and repeated the song.

“What is it?” Mike asked when Tilden had finished. “It’s beautiful.”

“The Cossack Lullaby by Lermentov. I’ll dig up the text for you and a translation.  You’ve got ten more minutes in bed.”

“Don’t remind me,” Mike said with a small smile. “Will you sing more? Please.”

“ _Akh Arbat, moy Arbat...”_  

TIlden stopped singing and started to stand when Mike caught his hand. “Don’t stop.”

“It’s been more than ten minutes. Don’t you want to get up?”

“I guess. That was nice. Thanks.”

Tilden ruffled Mike’s hair. “Come on. Hopefully the rest of the day can be a bit nicer than the start.”

 

 

Mike was surprised that the kitchen smelled of sage and thyme. Tilden and Luke had been with him most of the day. How could they have cooked? The other two couples were nowhere in sight, but it sure looked like Mace and Trent’s handiwork. It smelled of Thanksgiving, a holiday he’d celebrated with Jo, the neighbor lady with the cats and at the community center in Japan with other expats, but never with his family. His parents refused to acknowledge a bourgeois, religious holiday that commemorated a meal with the same people that later settlers murdered and forced into desolate, windswept ghettos in the least habitable parts of the country. Before Mike could get further lost in thought, Tilden pulled out a chair and clicked his fingers, indicating that Mike should sit.

It was a strange meal. Tilden asked Luke what he wanted to eat and drink, but just handed Mike his food, yet Tilden took care to offer food that Mike liked. His salad was without the dreaded tomatoes, and when Luke asked for Coke Tilden gave them both water and split the soda between two glasses. Tilden served Mike both the leg and a slice of breast of the roast chicken. There was even dessert, which had to be Mace’s handiwork as it was the same pumpkin pie that he prepared for the shop.

After the meal, Luke wandered off to study, leaving Mike alone again with Tilden. Mike gathered his silverware together on his plate and stood to take it to the sink. Tilden’s hand settled on his shoulder.

“No, sit.”

Mike squirmed and watched Tilden load the dishwasher. Finished with kitchen clean up, Tilden reached out and took Mike’s hand.

“Come sit in the study with me.”

The rest of the evening was spent within easy reach of Tilden’s hand: sitting on the floor in the study with Mike’s back resting against Tilden’s leg as Tilden graded endless papers, curled on the sofa watching television, and even quickly showering as Tilden leaned against the sink.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The threesome tries to build a normal life.

 

**Meet Your Mate**

**Chapter 11**

 

Luke had twice wakened during the night. Now it was six thirty, and he didn’t think he could go back to sleep. He stared out the windows; at this time of year, only the faintest grey told of the impending dawn. He’d gone to bed at nine unsure what else to do when Tilden sent Mike to bed. Only Mike was on punishment, but the house had seemed empty with his partners in the bedroom. Tilden usually sent Luke to be with Trent or Milton if he was occupied, but Luke didn’t feel comfortable inviting himself. Both couples had disappeared for the late afternoon and evening. They probably were only politely giving them some space, but Luke had felt lonely, and now both his partners were asleep while he watched the minutes tick by at an agonizingly slow pace. The clock never moved this slowly when he needed more time for a test.

Luke shifted in bed; no sign that either partner was close to waking. He padded across the floor, grabbing a robe and slippers. If Trent was in the kitchen, he’d complain about bare feet in winter, not that he ever did more than complain. Milton was quick to swat, but Trent just looked at you with a long, slow stare and suggested you fix the problem.

As Luke walked into the kitchen, a radio was playing softly in the background, the folk tunes favored by Trent. Trent was whisking something, singing to the music, his foot keeping beat. Luke opened the refrigerator for a glass of juice; he debated having Coke but didn’t feel like getting nagged even if Trent did it with good humor.

“You’re up early. Is everything OK, kiddo?” 

Luke shifted uncomfortably under Trent’s gaze. All the tops did this; they seemed to look right through you. “Yeah, I guess.”

Trent reached in a drawer, tore off a sheet of plastic wrap, and covered the bowl before he turned back to Luke. “Are you feeling left out?”

“No, I just went to bed too early.”

Trent looped an arm around Luke and kissed his forehead. “Tilden’s been tied up with Mike. You know you’re welcome upstairs with us anytime you want.”

Luke nodded but kept his eyes on the ground.

“Hey, you can talk to me. I don’t bite.” Trent turned Luke around so he was facing Trent. “How much is Mike being in trouble bothering you?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Lying to me is probably not the best idea,” Trent said, brushing the blond curls off Luke’s face. “You don’t have to talk to me, but then you do have to talk to Tilden. It’s up to you.”

“Tilden’s busy.”

“He’s not too busy for you.” Trent wrapped his arms around Luke and pulled him close, resting his chin on Luke’s head. “You’re short enough to do this; it’s kind of nice. So—do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid if it’s got you upset.”

“It is stupid,” Luke repeated, his voice rising. “I’m envious Mike’s getting all the attention, and he’s in trouble. I hate being in trouble.”

“Do you know Mike’s envious that you do this so easily?”

“Really?”

“Yep, that’s what Tilden pried out of him yesterday.” Trent kissed the top of Luke’s head. “Tilden’s crazy about both of you. Do you want to help me finish breakfast? Everybody will be up soon. I’m making _sirniki_ , cottage cheese pancakes. Ask Tilden how to pronounce it correctly.”

“That sounds gross.”

“You’ll like them. Have I made anything you don’t like?”

“Well, I don’t much like vegetables.”

“Brat.” Trent briefly tickled Luke before he pushed him out of his arms.

 

 

Everybody came to breakfast. Sheldon bounced around as usual until Milton kicked him under the table. At least Luke suspected Milton kicked him because Sheldon yelped, gave Milton a dirty look, and stopped bouncing. Trent had been right; the _sirniki_ weren’t bad. Mike was quiet, and his eyes looked red. He was dressed in a plain sweatshirt without vulgar slogans and jeans that had to be Tilden’s as they had no holes. Trent seemed to have a silent conversation with Tilden that involved raised eyebrows and quick glances. 

Tilden must have understood because he came up behind Luke and wrapped his arms around his blond partner. “Hang in there, Luka. Everything will settle down in a bit.” 

“If you guys are done making out, I need to talk to you about the TV people,” Sheldon interrupted.

“Thanks for your help yesterday,” Tilden said.

“You’re welcome.” 

Luke watched Sheldon. He was sober and direct as he spoke about the contractual obligations to the television show. He did tap his fingers on the table, but there was none of the bouncing and sly grins that usually marked a conversation with Sheldon.

“Laura, the producer, wants to keep you on the show. I’m sure you’ve heard that two couples have already bailed, and the audience loves you guys. You were picked to win the bedroom set, but it was reallotted to the second place couple when you became a threesome. Well, to make a long story short, I told them they could interview you today at ten.”

“What?” Luke, Mike, and Tilden said simultaneously.

“Hey, don’t bite my head off. I thought this would be easier.”

“Sorry, Sheldon, you did the right thing,” Tilden said. “Are there any benefits to us remaining on the show?”

“Well, other than I think you have a good chance of winning it,” Sheldon said with a broad grin. “I’ve seen some of the footage from the other households, and you’re much more fun.”

“I don’t care about winning,” Tilden said. “I care about you guys.” Tilden wrapped an arm around Mike and Luke.

“I think they might have fun. There’s some interesting stuff planned. I can’t tell you the specifics, but I can tell you Dave and Lionel will be out of your hair. The couples, or in your case the threesome, get privacy in their own homes. After the initial weeks, the show focuses more on special projects and trips.”

“And how big of a bonus do you get if you persuade us to stay on the show?” Tilden asked.

“Tilden, I know you’re a cynic about television, but even I’m not that mercenary,” Sheldon said with mock indignation.

“Save the innocent act for someone who will believe you.” Tilden smiled, enjoying the banter.

“I think it might be fun,” Mike said. “You’re always such a stick in the mud.”

“Ouch, that hurt.” Tilden ruffled Mike’s hair. “Do you guys want to stay in this circus?”

Luke looked at Mike, trying to judge his opinion. He wanted to stay. Yeah, having the camera crew had been a bit of a pain but kind of fun also, and when the show had aired last time the couples had traveled to some fabulous locations. One episode had been filmed in Hawaii. “I want to do it.”

“Mike, what about you?”

“Does my opinion matter? I’m not allowed to pick my own clothes. How can I be trusted to make a judgement about a television show?”

Luke saw Sheldon wince and heard him mutter something under his breath at the tone of Mike’s outburst. It sounded like death wish, but it was hard to tell. 

Tilden grabbed Mike by the back of his sweatshirt and hoisted him to his feet. “Corner now.” He landed a hard swat on Mike’s butt.

“Fuck you! I told you my opinion doesn’t matter. You just shove me in the corner—”

Mike didn’t get any further because Tilden landed four hard, rapid swats, driving Mike into the corner to escape the punishing hand. “Not another word.”

“I’ll leave you guys to think about it,” Sheldon said, throwing repeated glances at Mike who was grumbling in the corner with Tilden standing right behind him. “Do you want me to take Luke with me?”

“No, we’ll be fine,” Tilden answered. “Since Mike doesn’t seem inclined to answer at the moment, use Luke’s answer. Tell the station we’ll stay.”

“OK,” Sheldon said over his shoulder as he headed up the stairs.

Luke watched, both mesmerized and horrified as Mike kicked the wall, spun around, and launched a string of obscenities at Tilden. 

 

“Excuse us a moment,” Tilden said with icy politeness as he pushed Mike towards the half bath off the hall. Luke sat hunched at the table, listening to bangs, muffled curses, and finally crying from the bathroom. He didn’t notice Milton on the stairs until he felt the strong arms around his shoulders and a short beard rubbing against his cheek.

“Hey, kid, it’s going to be all right.” 

“How’d you know?” Luke leaned into Milton, but still strained to hear the commotion in the bathroom.

“Sheldon told me.” Milton rubbed Luke’s back for a moment before he turned the radio on and increased the volume. “He may bounce around like a jack-in-the-box on speed, but he’s been in this type of relationship for a long time. He knew you were upset, and he understands Mike’s motivation.”

Luke stared at Milton who walked back to Luke’s side, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him to his feet. Milton kissed Luke firmly on the forehead, a possessive, claiming kiss of a family member.

“I know it doesn’t much fit with Sheldon’s outward personality. Sheldon likes absolute boundaries; it makes him feel secure. When he’s stressed, he’ll push just hard enough to get me to remind him that the boundaries are still there. He understands the dynamics of the relationship and plays them to get the results he needs and wants. With two new housemates, he’s needed more reassurance than normal. I think you see him as a bit of a lunatic, is that right?”

Luke nodded.

“You think I’m strict and scary and can’t figure out how I can have such a wild partner?”

Luke blushed. “I...”

“It’s OK to find me scary.” Milton ruffled Luke’s hair and kissed his forehead again. “Mace tiptoed by the second floor landing for six months, hoping I would never hear him and that boy rode bucking horses for a living. He told me later that he’d rather ride a horse that hadn’t been ridden in a year than talk to me alone.” Milton sat down on a kitchen chair and pulled Luke down on top of him before he continued. “Mike needs hard boundaries just like Sheldon. He’s testing right now to make sure they’re always going to be there. It’s going to be noisy and ugly with a lot of tears for a few weeks. Tilden’s not mad at Mike; he just giving Mike what he wants.”

Even with the radio, Luke could hear the sounds of a spanking from the bathroom, the crack of Tilden’s hand against the bare flesh and the answering wail of Mike. Luke shuddered and buried his head in Milton’s chest.

“I know it’s hard to listen to. From the sound of it, it’ll be over soon.”

Milton was right. Luke strained his ears. He could hear only steady crying and the sound of water running. A few minutes later, they both came out of the bathroom. Tilden had his arms locked around Mike who’s face was hidden in Tilden’s shoulder. Both men had their sweatshirts off, and their T-shirts were wet and clinging to their chests. Tilden’s tight white T-shirt, dark jeans, and hair hanging wildly in his eyes made him look like a misplaced teen rebel. Like a rehearsed dance, Milton slid Luke from his lap and hooked an arm around Mike, pulling him from Tilden’s embrace, and Tilden drew Luke into his chest. Luke felt the wet cotton against his cheek and Tilden’s hands running down his back, comforting but also possessing. The hands were driving Luke tighter into Tilden’s chest, controlling him, dominating him. Luke shuddered and the tears came.

Luke didn’t know how long he cried. Tilden made no effort to quiet him, just held him tight and waited. Finally still sniffling and hiccuping, Luke pushed himself out of Tilden’s arms. “Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I’ve been crying like a baby.”

“Does it look like it bothers me? Do I look upset about it?”

Luke studied Tilden. He was leaning against the counter, the same pose that Luke had seen thousands of times against the chalkboard in class—casually interested, friendly, engaging. His eyes were bright, sparkles of violet glimmered in the deep blue color. Someone who Luke couldn’t remember had written that the eyes were the windows to the soul. If that were true, Tilden couldn’t be upset, nothing but warmth shone in his eyes and now a faint glint of humor.

“Do you like what you see? Tilden smiled a wry grin and flipped his hair out of his eyes like a boy model.

“Yeah, you’re hot.” 

“Come on, brat.” Tilden captured Luke and kissed him hard and deep. “Enough,” Tilden said, laughing and pushing Luke away. “We’ve got TV people in less than thirty minutes, and I’m not exactly presentable.”

“Ah, you’re no fun. I thought we could have a wet T-shirt contest.”

“Wet T-shirts are for the ladies.”

“We can’t let them have all the fun.”

Tilden playfully swatted Luke. “No, we’re not going to scandalize a national television audience. I don’t care how much fun you think it would be.”

“No fair.”

“Bedroom, now.” Tilden made a playful lunge at Luke, who dodged out of the way and ran toward the bedroom with Tilden chasing behind. 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The threesome continues to deal with life and the demands of reality television.

**Meet Your Mate**

**Chapter 12**

 

The television people came in force; they even parked one of those vans with a satellite dish on the roof in the driveway. Sheldon showed everybody into the living room and then disappeared back upstairs. Mike stared at the entourage; he knew Dave and Lionel, but the rest were strangers. A pale man in a charcoal suit with a pink tie was introduced as one of the writers; the woman in the floral skirt, more suitable for Florida than Massachusetts, was a producer, and the tall angular woman with the high cheekbones of a model was a host for the show and would do the interviews. She had introduced herself as Fiona somebody—Mike didn’t quite catch her last name—and had plastered a phony smile on her face as she shook everybody’s hand. Thank God they were sitting all together and most of the questions were addressed to Tilden. Mike didn’t feel comfortable answering questions about the legal and social implications of a threesome.

“Professor Blake, Sheldon Zath has assured me that it was in no way planned to incorporate a third party into your relationship. In his words, ‘it just happened.’ Would you like to elaborate on the expression it just happened?” Fiona asked with a saccharine sweet smile. “I’m sure most of our viewers have no experience with a threesome.”

Tilden snorted. “I had no experience with a threesome until two weeks ago. I can assure you it wasn’t planned, but I wouldn’t want it any other way now that it has happened.” Tilden reached over ruffled Mike’s and Luke’s hair, making both boys blush.

“Does the lack of legal recognition within the Commonwealth of Massachusetts concern you?” Fiona asked.

“Multiple partners are not legally recognized as marriage, but they are also not illegal. The college has already indicated that they will recognize both Luke and Mike as my partners and offer them identical benefits. We’re fortunate, as while there are no laws forbidding such recognition, there are also no laws requiring it. If the college had chosen to recognize only one partner, we would’ve had no recourse.”

“How is your family reacting to this development?” Fiona specifically addressed Tilden, but it was clear she was going to ask each partner in turn.

“Do you mean my blood family or my family here?” Tilden replied.

“Both.”

“My parents are delighted. They were convinced that I would die an old maid, if a man can be an old maid, and they are thrilled to have two sons-in-law. I’m the only child in the family so having two partners was a bonus as far as they’re concerned. They’re coming in a few weeks to visit. They would’ve come earlier, but I told them they had to wait until midterm exams were over.”

Mike looked over at Tilden. He’d spoken to Tilden’s parents on the phone in the forced cheerfulness required when speaking to unknown relatives. He hadn’t expected a visit. They were going to be here; they’d know about him and Tilden. How could he hide that from his parents? Mike said, “yes, sir” and let Tilden boss him around. He wasn’t an ordinary boyfriend. Mike was impossibly young for Tilden, and Mike needed so much.

“Mike.”

Mike was drawn back to the present by Fiona saying his name in a strident tone. He’d missed Tilden’s reply on the reaction of his housemates, but Mike knew that answer without hearing it. Tilden would say the appropriate platitudes about the delight of his housemates while Mike secretly knew that both tops found him a pain in the ass and that Sheldon would’ve killed him in a heartbeat if Milton wouldn’t flay him alive for such behavior. 

“Mike,” Fiona said again. “What do your parents think?”

“I don’t know.”

“You haven’t told them?” Fiona asked, her eyebrows climbing into her perfectly coiffured hair line.

“We’ve tried to. Tilden was adamant that I tell them.” Mike played with the buttons on his shirt cuffs for a moment before continuing. “My parents are very busy saving the world, and they can be hard to reach.” Mike didn’t hide the bitterness in his tone. “I think they’re in Laos right now or maybe it’s Burma—some country in Southeast Asia. I thought they were in India, but the yogi said they moved on.”

“Don’t you have a phone number?”

“We tried it,” Mike said with a shrug. “The person at the other end had never heard of my parents. He didn’t speak much English either.”

“How did you talk to him?”

“Tilden speaks French.”

“I think that’s a bit generous,” Tilden said with a laugh. “I can make myself understood in French. I’m sure the French cover their ears if I say more that a few words. I have a heavy Russian accent.”

“Well, anyway,” Mike said in a disinterested tone. “Tilden finally called the attorney who manages my parents’ affairs when they’re away.  She said she contacted them through the Western Union office in Vientiane. We sent a telegram, but we haven’t heard back. They might have replied to the lawyer, but we haven’t heard.” He shrugged again. “I’m used to it. My parents are busy.”

Tilden reached over, hooked an arm around Mike’s neck, pulled the young man to his chest, and kissed Mike firmly of the forehead before he let him go.

“And Luke, what about your parents?” Fiona asked.

“My father’s not too happy, but he’s never happy with me, so life goes on as usual.”

“And what about your mother?”

“I haven’t heard from her in years,” Luke said with a dismissive shrug. “When my dad announced he was bisexual, she got the hell out of Dodge. Her parents still live in Texas, so I doubt she would approve.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Fiona said. Mike watched Fiona struggle to come up with a new direction for the conversation; two highly dysfunctional families had thrown her for a loop. “Well, Luke,” she said with false brightness. “What do your friends think of your new living arrangements?”

“Mike was my closest friend, and he lives here now. I hope he’s happy. I hope I didn’t force him into something he hates.” Luke looked over at Mike, his eyes wide with concern.

“You didn’t,” Mike said softly, too softly for Fiona to hear. “I blackmailed Tilden into taking me.”

Tilden whispered into Mike’s ear, “You did not. I was greedy and wanted both of you.”

“I need you to speak loud enough that our audience can enjoy your comments,” Fiona said.

“ _Tak...”_

“And in English,” Fiona interrupted. “I’ve been warned that you have a bad habit of lapsing into Russian.”

“It’s important to introduce the American people to foreign languages,” Tilden said, slipping into his professorial mode. “It’s one of the disgraces of the American educational system that we produce so few students who have mastered a second language. Here at Banner College we require only two years of a foreign language, which is more than many college and universities, but is far from adequate. With two years of Russian, you can probably understand directions to Red Square or find a bathroom, but that’s about it. The classic literature will still be totally inaccessible. Tolstoy, Pushkin, Lermontov, Chekhov, to name a few, all deserve to be read in the original.”

Mike bit his lip to keep from laughing. It was obvious that Tilden was planning a long, winding talk about the Russian language to prevent further prying questions. Fiona was desperately trying to halt the flow of information, but Tilden ignored her and continued to espouse on the wonders of a foreign language education. He was now describing in detail what each level of language competency meant.

“I’d like to see every student required to achieve advanced-mid as defined by the American Council of Teachers of Foreign Languages in all four areas of competency: speaking, reading, writing, and listening. With an advanced knowledge, you can read the classics; you will still need a dictionary and much effort, but it’s doable.”

As Tilden continued, Mike and Luke couldn’t hide their amusement and started to giggle behind their hands. Tilden tried to sound annoyed as he hushed them, but neither boy could contain their laughter.

Fiona took the opportunity to halt the lecture. “I’m sure our audience is fascinated by the intricacies of foreign language learning, but this show is focused on the relationship between partners.”

“Sorry, I tend to get carried away when I’m discussing my favorite topic.” Tilden gave Fiona an innocent, charming smile.

“I think that’s all the questions I have for the three of you together. May I have your permission to speak to the two young men without your presence?” Fiona asked Tilden.

“Of course.” Tilden rose smoothly from the sofa. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Please come and get me when you’re done."

Mike nodded, relieved that Tilden didn’t mention that Mike was supposed to be damn near glued to a top for the next two weeks. The look Tilden had given Mike did little to shield the threat of what would happen if Mike didn’t report to the kitchen immediately after the conclusion of the interview. Mike shifted on the sofa; he’d already been spanked twice today. He had no desire to go for three.

“Boys, I wasn’t sure he would leave.” Fiona tried to dazzle them with a smile, her perfect teeth glittering in the hot spot lights. “He seems very protective. I noticed when Luke was first paired with him that he kept you well out of the crowd and dodged every interview. Do you find him a bit suffocating? I know I would.”

“Well, I’m not you,” Luke said. “I like it.”

“And what about you?” Fiona said, turning towards Mike.

Mike shrugged. He wasn’t sure how he felt, but he knew he wasn’t going to share his feelings with this prying woman. He’d seen enough reality TV to know she was searching for a chink in his armor to create controversy. Yelling and humiliating public breakdowns sold air time. “It’s OK.”

“You don’t sound as enthused about it as Luke. Has he clipped you wings more than you like?” she said, giving Mike another one of her phony smiles.

“No, I’m just not as talkative. OK?” Mike didn’t try to hide the hostility in his voice. Straight men maybe found this woman attractive, but he was finding her repulsive, her attempts to worm her way into his confidence obvious and disgraceful.

“It sounds like it’s not so easy for you,” she said with another false smile and an attempt to sound sympathetic.

“It’s fine,” Mike said, gritting his teeth.

“It doesn’t sound fine.” Fiona smiled sweetly.

“What the fuck do you want me to do?” Mike yelled. “Walk up and down Main Street with a fucking banner and a brass band?”

Before Mike could say any more, Tilden appeared in the doorway. “I made some tea. I thought everyone might like some.” Tilden set the tray on the table and started pouring. He’d made it Russian style and had a pot of hot water and a second pot of dark tea. “Would anyone like sugar or jam?”

Mike and Luke exchanged glances, both trying to keep a straight face. Mike knew that Tilden must have heard the raised voices and decided an impromptu tea party could prevent a disaster. Fiona tried to hide the irritation that her line of questioning had been cleverly thwarted. Tilden busied himself pouring tea. He handed Mike a glass, the tea a pale caramel color with a heaping spoonful of raspberry preserves. Mike took the glass without protest. He didn’t like tea, but something in Tilden’s expression told him that a protest now was not in his best interest.

“I’ll just leave the pots here in case you want more. We have homemade bread in the kitchen. Would anyone like some?”

“No, the tea is lovely, thank you,” Fiona said, setting the tea on an end table without taking a sip. “I just have a couple more questions to ask your partners, and then we’ll be all done.” She smiled again, but the curve of her lips didn’t hide the fierce glare in her eyes.

“I’ll just be in the kitchen if you change your mind about bread or would like anything else,” Tilden said, ignoring the glare.

Fiona waited until Tilden had left before speaking again. “Mike, it does seem your partner likes to keep a close eye on you. This tea party for instance.”

Mike smiled. It had been fun watching Tilden needle Fiona with the tea. He could play this game also. “Oh, no, I think Tilden just remembered his manners. It was most inhospitable not to offer tea earlier. Our apologies.”

Luke jumped into the conversation, giving Fiona a practiced expression of angelic innocence. “Remember this week’s dialogue when Pasha brings the American student home to meet his mother. They have tea and cakes and grandmother gives the guest a commemorative coin of St. Petersburg.”

“And Bill, the visiting student, takes her flowers, which he buys at the metro stop.”

“I thought he took glasses that he bought at Gostiny Dvor.”

“No, that’s when he visits Moscow,” Mike said.

“Gostiny Dvor is in St. Petersburg, not Moscow.”

“I’m sure your Russian lessons are fascinating, but we’re not here to discuss the adventures of Bill in Moscow.”

“Not Moscow—St. Petersburg,” Luke chimed in. “The window to the West. GUM is in Moscow. 

“Please, I need to ask you a few questions for the next show.” Fiona’s voice was becoming louder, and her cheeks were pinker.

“We’re sorry,” Mike said with false sincerity. “It’s just we’ve been studying Russian a lot, and we’re a little slap happy.”

“I’m sure you are, gentlemen,” Fiona said, her professional persona firmly back in place. “I have a few more question. They’re all straightforward, so it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, and then you can get back to the books. “What’s you’re favorite food?”

“I don’t know; I have lots of favorites,” Mike said.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Luke said. “Burgers or a pizza.”

“That’s not true. I like fries too.”

“So would it be fair to say you like junk food?” Fiona asked.

“Yeah.” Mike nodded.

“And what about you, Luke?”

“Anything sweet,” Mike replied before Luke had a chance to answer.

“So, you like dessert?”

“Yes,” Luke said, “especially anything Mace makes. He makes great pies.”

“What don’t you like?” Fiona asked.

“Vegetables,” Both young men said together.

“And what about Tilden?”

Luke and Mike both looked at each. Finally Luke said, “I don’t think he likes beets. When we were labeling the foods, he told me a story about cold beets for breakfast when he was studying in Russia. He described the concoction in graphic detail. It sounded ghastly.”

Mike laughed. “Beets for breakfast—my worst nightmare. That’s got to be worse than Tilden’s lumpy oatmeal.”

“Is his oatmeal lumpy?” Fiona asked, suddenly interested.

“Oh, yeah,” Luke agreed. “He can’t cook. If Trent and Mace didn’t cook, we’d all starve.”

“He can make toast,” Mike said with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Luke spluttered, “New Orleans style toast, properly blackened.”

“Fire extinguisher foam is not a good condiment,” Mike said, laughing.

“How can you say that? We’ve only had it on toast.”

“Mace and Trent won’t let him fry anything after he set the curtains on fire,” Mike added.

“What?’ Fiona asked, her interest piqued.

“I don’t really know the story,” Mike apologized. “Mace just mentioned it one day when he was frying bacon.”

“What is Tilden’s favorite food?” Fiona asked.

“I don’t know,” Mike said.

“Anything Russian,” Luke said.

“As long as there are no beets,” Mike added.

“What about _sirniki_? Trent made them today as a special treat.”

“What are _sirniki_?” Fiona asked, struggling with the pronunciation of the unfamiliar word. Mike saw Fiona look up at the ceiling with a pleading look; she was expecting another discourse on the Russian language.

It was Luke who answered; he’d really started to get into the Russian stuff. They had both been bugging Tilden last week, complaining about little things. Tilden had finally had enough and handed them a stack of notecards, a roll of string, and a hole punch and sent them to identify all the furniture in the living room and study. Small white cards dangled from the coffee table and the sofa legs. Mike knew he was now sitting on the _divan_ and Fiona was in the _kreslo_. Mike had found the whole exercise a drag, but Luke had enjoyed it, tossing books on and under the furniture and quizzing Mike on their location. Luke was now explaining _sirniki_ with just as much enthusiasm. 

“ _Sirniki_ are cheese pancakes. The name comes from the word for cheese which is _sir._ In Russia they’re are made from a special cheese called _tvorog_ ; we can’t get that here, so Trent used cottage cheese.” 

How did Luke know so much about those damn pancakes? Mike would rather have had blueberry pancakes any day. Had Tilden talked about them at breakfast? He didn’t remember, but he’d spent most of breakfast in what Tilden had called a full blown self-absorbed tantrum. Mike’s butt still tingled as a result of those tantrums; a discussion of pancakes would’ve been a better choice.

“What’s Tilden’s favorite color?” Fiona asked when she finally managed to get a word in during Luke’s pancake discourse.

“Forest green or navy, I think,” Mike said. “At least that’s the color of all his shirts and sweaters.”

“And what about you, Mike? I see you’re wearing a dark green shirt.”

“I prefer more exciting colors, especially purples. This is Tilden’s shirt. He doesn’t think much of my clothes.”

“Does he like you to dress more conservatively than you like?”

“You could say that: no leather, nothing with holes, nothing tight, nothing with sequins—”

“I’ve never seen you with sequins,” Luke interrupted.  “Some of your clothes are a bit provocative.”

“You’re as bad as he is wanting me to look like some small town hick.”

“Mike, you’re making him sound like the fashion Gestapo. He’s not that bad about it. He let you keep your jewelry.”

“It wouldn’t bother you. Your idea of fashion makes me shudder, private school boy all the way.”

“Mike,” Luke whined and tossed a throw pillow at him.

“Boys.” A sharp voice came from the back of the room.

Both Luke and Mike froze, and Mike’s hand went to cover his butt. Tilden would scorch him if he found them fighting. Thank God it was only Lionel. Mike didn’t stop to think why Lionel would’ve broken the two of them up, but he did notice the look of pure venom that Fiona shot at him. A good fight would’ve been excellent television.

“I’ve been hanging around long enough to have a good idea what will happen if you fight,” Lionel said with a wry grin. “It doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“Yes, sir,” Luke said, studying the swirling pattern of the rug. Mike could only manage a nod before he sat back on the sofa and tried to assume an air of unruffled calm.

“What happens if you fight?” Fiona asked, trying to sound curious rather than greedy for juicy bits.

Mike stared at the floor; he could feel his ear tips reddening, and Luke turned a bright pink. There were some advantages in not having straw colored hair and brilliant blue eyes, Mike thought.

“Come on, I think our audience would like to know what would happen?” Fiona prodded.

“They can use their imagination,” Mike spat.

“So you get spanked.” Fiona said with what Mike thought was an evil twist of her lips. “Does it hurt a lot?”

Both young men looked at the carpet. Mike traced the pattern with his toe, and Luke swung his feet against the front of the sofa.

“Boys, what’s with the sudden shyness? Everybody knows in this relationship the brat gets spanked. I saw you both blanch when Lionel raised his voice. You had to both think you were going to get it.”

Neither Luke nor Mike answered.

“Oh come now, my blushing maidens. I know Luke was spanked after his fraternity party binge.”

Mike didn’t think Luke could blush any redder, but it was Lionel who set his camera down with a clatter on an end table and marched in front of Fiona’s chair. He’d always been in the background, and Mike had never really noticed him before. They’d said hello and discussed the weather, the same types of conversations he might have with a stranger while waiting in a line. Lionel was a big man with dark, curly hair and the shoulders of a linebacker, and he looked angry. Not the controlled anger Mike had seen with the tops, but an anger that could end in a shattered window or a broken head. Fiona tried to smile and make appeasing noises but shrank back in her chair as Lionel loomed closer.

“Leave those boys alone,” he roared. “This is supposed to be a fluff interview about favorite foods, colors, and movies, not an inquisition. Tilden and everybody else who lives here have treated Dave and me with nothing but respect and courtesy even when they’d prefer that we were anywhere else but here. I will not stand by and let you humiliate and destroy these boys. Punishment is private. Stick to the script, or I’ll have every top in here in less than five seconds and will gladly assist in your removal from this household.” Lionel turned on his heel and returned to the back of the room, where Dave moved closer and squeezed his arm. Mike couldn’t tell if Dave was trying to settle him back down or congratulate him.

Fiona licked her lips and smoothed her hair back before continuing. “So, what type of music does Tilden like?”

“Russian rock music,” Luke said.

“I’ve heard him play classical also,” Mike said.

“And what about you boys?” Fiona asked, nearly simpering with sweetness.

“I don’t much care,” Luke said. “I sort of like the folk stuff Trent plays.”

They talked about innocent things: favorite TV shows, favorite films, favorite books, favorite vacation spots and other soft questions. After covering mundane topics for twenty minutes, Fiona returned to more sensitive subjects. “What behaviors are most likely to result in discipline?”

“Running away, drinking,” Luke said.

“Don’t forget temper fits,” Mike added, rolling his eyes. He’d had a bit too much experience with those this morning, even though he wasn’t about to share the details with the lovely Fiona.

“Luke, I know at the initial selection you mentioned that you were in academic difficulty. Has this improved?” Fiona prodded.

Luke sighed. “Not really, I have a midterm Tuesday in history that’s going to be a slaughter.”

“So will you be in trouble?” Fiona asked.

Luke glanced at Mike as if he were looking for reassurance before answering. Mike just shrugged. He didn’t know how Tilden would respond. Tilden seemed serious about academics; he sat them down every evening to complete their assignments and kept a close enough eye that shirking wasn’t possible, but he didn’t rant or shout. Instead he quietly insisted everything be completed. And just like the old proverb, “If it’s worth doing it’s worth doing well,” Tilden insisted it be completed to the best of their ability and wasn’t shy about making them redo unsatisfactory work. Neither of them had taken any exams yet. Would Tilden remain that calm in the face of a clear failure? Luke had turned in a major English paper; Tilden had made Luke rewrite the paper three times before Tilden had called it adequate. Luke had been frustrated to the point of shouts and curses, but Tilden had made the choice clear: write the paper or write the paper with a sore ass. Of course Tilden had used language more appropriate for mixed company, but the gist had been the same.

“I don’t know, but I expect so,” Luke muttered. “I guess I’ll find out Tuesday night.”

“That sounds like fun,” Fiona said with a false, smile that was more predatory than friendly.

“It won’t be anything new. I have loads of experience with disappointment over grades. It can’t be any worse.”

Fiona nodded. “That’s good for now, guys. Will you send Tilden in?”

Mike rose from the sofa, relieved that the interrogation was over but suspicious that Fiona was planning to spring a nasty surprise on the three of them. Mike trailed Luke into the kitchen where Tilden was sitting at the table with his ever present glass of tea. Milton was with Tilden, but drinking his preferred black coffee. The aroma of tea and coffee vied for supremacy in the kitchen with the dark brew that Milton favored winning, overpowering the bitter smell of black tea.

“Fiona would like to talk to you,” Luke said more to the refrigerator door than to Tilden. Mike was still mystified by Luke’s persistent shyness around Tilden. It was obvious that Tilden adored him, and it wasn’t Luke that was in endless trouble, but yet he stumbled over the words when he needed to ask Tilden a direct question.

Tilden stood and ruffled Luke’s hair. “Why don’t you guys stay with Milton.”

Mike nodded. Even when all the household knew that Mike was in trouble, Tilden hadn’t singled him out to stay with Milton. Mike was relieved not to have his humiliating prohibition about being alone announced throughout the house, but he shook his head over the sudden privacy. Tilden had spanked Mike in front of the other tops, but now he handled the restrictions placed on Mike with the tact of the diplomat. Mike was sure that Tilden was following some complicated ethical precedent for punishing a horribly wayward boy, but the rules escaped him. Tilden or Milton could probably deliver a lecture on the rules governing restriction of a brat complete with overhead projections and bulleted slides. Mike’s mind reeled at the thought of absorbing more rules.

 

****

 

Tilden sat on the sofa and looked at Fiona. He wanted to glare at her, but he tried not to openly display his hostility to the show’s host as he greeted her. He considered her only one step above the screamers who inhabited talk radio and knew that she would enjoy provoking him into an outburst.

“Thank you, Tilden, for agreeing to this friendly chat,” Fiona said with a false smile. “I want to start by telling you how charming I found both your young men.”

“I’m very proud of my partner, but that is not what you want to talk about today.”

“Are you always this suspicious?” Fiona said with a small, tinkling laugh and batted her long, cosmetically enhanced eyelashes at Tilden.

“With television people, yes. I live with Sheldon.”

“Fair enough,” Fiona said. “Are all tops this protective?”

“I can’t speak for all tops, but I can tell you that Milton and Trent certainly are. We’re tops after all; we don’t want to get thrown out of the local union. Protectiveness is a required skill.” Tilden laughed before he changed to a more serious tone. “Do you let someone you love get hurt if you can prevent it?” Tilden waited for Fiona to answer.

“No,” Fiona finally said. “But a top is more controlling than simply preventing harm.”

“Sometimes. Focusing on the controlling is better television. But no matter what you would like to say on TV, we also prevent harm, or at least that’s what a good top does. These boys want a certain type of relationship, and I can provide it.”

“How is spanking preventing harm?”

“Spanking is only a very small part of the relationship, and my partners consent.”

“You’d defend this relationship no matter the scientific evidence against spanking.”

Tilden swallowed hard, willing himself to remain calm and objective. He was aware of the scientific evidence, but that was punishment in the lab or the punishment of a child. A power exchange wasn’t punishment in the scientific sense at all, but a punishment suffused with the complexity of their sexual relationship. Milton could explain the difference. He’d explained it more than a few times to Tilden with long, persuasive, and sometimes confusing arguments. Tilden would only spank his boys under those conditions. Otherwise, well, he wouldn’t contemplate it; the idea was appalling. “Is your boss aware that he has a host with an agenda? This is supposed to be entertainment for the public, not a diatribe against corporal punishment. I personally do not advocate the use of corporal punishment outside of a negotiated power exchange. If you are not aware of the difference, I would strongly suggest you resign your position, and if you are aware of the differences I certainly have ample reason to write a memo to your boss complaining about your lack of objectivity.”

“Check and mate,” Lionel said from behind the camera.

Fiona swiveled in her chair and shot Lionel a look of pure menace. She ran her hand over her hair, smoothing imaginary straying locks as she recovered her cloying friendliness. “I talked with Luke and Mike about their hobbies. I’d like you to share some of your everyday pleasures. What is your favorite food?”

“I like lots of things—maybe shashlik.” Tilden saw Fiona’s look of confusion and clarified, “Shish kabob from Uzbekistan. It should be cooked outside in a fire pit.”

Fiona nodded. “Least favorite food?”

“That’s easy—beets. I still shudder at the thought of cold beets for breakfast.”

“Staying on the topic of food, what do you think are Luke’s and Mike’s favorite and least favorite foods?”

“I can tell you they’re both eating us out of house and home; Trent complains that it’s like cooking for a party every night. Luke seems to like anything sweet, and I think Mike is pining for junk food, especially pizza and chicken fingers. They dislike vegetables; both Trent and Mace are complaining that there are only so many different recipes for green beans. Salad and green beans are the only vegetables they’ll eat without a host of complaints. Mace branched out with a maple glazed acorn squash last week, practicing for Thanksgiving, and they looked at it like it was food for a space alien.”

“Speaking of cooking,” Fiona interrupted. “I understand that you’re a hazard in the kitchen. Is that true?”

“Absolutely,” Tilden said with a smile. “And I don’t think they know about the time I set the kitchen on fire.”

“You set the kitchen on fire?” Fiona asked with mock surprise.

“Only the curtains, not the entire kitchen. It was only a small grease fire,” Tilden said with a disarming wave of his hand.

“How did you set the curtains on fire?” Fiona asked with increasing interest.

“I guess you won’t rest until you hear the full story, It’s harmless enough, so sit back and enjoy. It happened about two years ago. I was cooking bacon and had the fire on too high. While I was cooking, I was reading a new Russian novel and was distracted by the rich prose of the author. I didn’t notice the smoke from the overheated grease until the shrill squeal of the smoke alarm reverberated throughout the house. Like a fool, I threw water on the fire causing the grease to spatter onto the curtains—and poof, a kitchen fire.” Tilden waved his arms dramatically as he described the fire. “Mace and Trent came pounding down the stairs, too late to prevent the water but quick enough to halt further damage. Trent grabbed the fire extinguisher, and Mace poured flour into the pan. After that, I was banned from frying.”

Fiona laughed. “So you didn’t get a scorched bottom out of it?”

“No, just threatened, and I’m sure Trent would go through with it if I caught anything else on fire.” Tilden could feel his cheeks reddening; he gave Fiona a sheepish smile. “I did get a world class lecture on kitchen safety.”

Fiona asked a few more questions about sports and movies before returning to more serious topics. “What types of behaviors will get Luke and Mike in trouble with you?”

Tilden groaned silently. It wasn't that simple, but this was television. He'd stick with simple even if it did stretch the truth. “Dangerous and dishonest behavior.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I know you talked to my partners, and I’m sure they mentioned excess drinking.”

“What about academics?” Fiona pried. “My understanding is that neither Luke nor Mike are good students.”

“They have typical freshmen problems. They do the work when I organize them, and that’s all I expect,” Tilden said with a smile and a shrug.

Fiona gave Tilden another false smile, stood, and shook hands. “Thank you for your time. We’re going to do some quick editing, and then I’d like to show you and your partners a few clips.”

Tilden nodded and returned to the kitchen.

It was only a few minutes before someone Tilden didn’t recognize came into the kitchen. “We’re ready,” the man said, a clipboard and papers fluttering in one hand.

Tilden draped his arms over his partners’ shoulders and walked with them into the living room. Luke, at nearly a head shorter, was a comfortable height to lean against or draw to Tilden’s chest. Mike was the same height as Tilden, and Tilden didn’t lean on Mike, but Tilden knew the weight of his arm helped keep Mike connected both physically and mentally to his top.

The television crew had redecorated the living room, removing the small television and replacing it with a large flat screen that was balanced on a coffee table blocking the fireplace. The sofa had been shifted to the side of the room and stacked around it were the table lamps and end tables that dotted the usual seating arrangement in front of the hearth. Tilden wanted to wince at the sight of the TV. He still felt TVs should be small enough to hide in a closet and that the fireplace should be the central feature in the living room.

“We would usually do this at the station,” Fiona said with a little laugh. “But I think we have no chance of getting you back to Boston this week.”

Tilden nodded and smiled. “You’re right.” Tilden sat down on the rug and pulled his two partners down with him. Mike flopped down on his stomach with his head resting on Tilden’s lap. Luke was folded into a ball next to Tilden, looking uncomfortable and alone. Tilden looped his arm around Luke and pulled his brat toward his chest. “You don’t have to ask,” Tilden whispered into Luke’s ear.

Fiona cued up the video. “In this segment, we’re going to film your reactions to each other’s responses. I must say you three seem to know more about each other than I know about my husband, and I’ve been married for three years,” Fiona said with a tinkling laugh. “Our first questions were about food.” 

The film started on the screen with Luke and Mike commenting that Tilden hated beets, followed by the clip with Tilden confirming his dislike of beets.

“It looks like beets are off the menu,” Fiona said. “Now I asked about your favorite foods.”

Tilden watched the tape, smiling as his brats tried to come up with his favorite food. “It’s winter; they couldn’t possibly know that I like shashlik. I don’t usually cook outside in November.”

The next segment was on fashion, or what Tilden would describe as fashion. It started with each partner describing his favorite color and the other partners guessing the color. None of the partners scored one hundred percent on this little quiz. The next scene showed Mike complaining about Tilden’s choice of clothes, especially the need for loose jeans with no holes.

Tilden ruffled Mike’s hair. “I like you dressed just for me. I don’t share.”

Mike rolled onto his hip, so he could look up at Tilden, his eyes searching Tilden’s face.

“ _Veri mne_. Believe me,” Tilden said, stroking Mike’s face. Tilden wanted to kiss Mike hard, physically reassure his boy of his place in his top’s heart, but with the cameras present, he satisfied himself with a gentle stroking.

“I have one final scene that I need to show you then you can enjoy the rest of the day.” Fiona made the last comment with a leering smile. She was implying to a future audience that she expected the three men to spend the remainder of the day in bed and not sleeping.

Tilden bristled at the implication that affection was only related to sex. What could he expect from network television? The advertising told the sad tale of television, women in bikinis and men in Speedos selling everything from instant coffee to new cars.  Tilden watched the final segment, keeping his hands on both his partners. As Luke came on the screen discussing his academic concerns, Tilden ran his hand up and down his young man’s back.

_“_ Luka, I know you have a history with school, but you’re not in trouble with me unless you don’t do your work. _Ponyatno?”_

“Luke, don’t you believe your partner when he says you won’t be in trouble?” Fiona asked.

Luke curled into Tilden’s shirt and kept his eyes buried.

Tilden tightened his arm around Luke’s shoulders. “You can answer her. You won’t offend me.”

“I don’t know,” Luke murmured. “I don’t like being in trouble.”

“You won’t be.” Tilden bent down and kissed Luke’s forehead.

“This is so interesting,” Fiona gushed. “I can’t wait to interview the three of you after midterms.”

“We’ll be waiting with bated breath,” Tilden said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

Fiona carried on as if she hadn’t heard Tilden and signaled to Dave and Lionel to quit filming and disassemble the lights.

Tilden untangled his long legs and leaned against his partners’ shoulders as he rose to his feet. “Do you need our help moving the furniture?”

“No, but thank you,” Fiona replied.

Tilden nodded, relieved that the crew was making quick work of returning their living room back to normal including removing the oversized television to the truck outside. He’d been worried that they might leave the giant beast of a TV; both his young men complained incessantly about the poor quality of the entertainment offerings, and a larger television would just add to his woes. Mike and Luke didn’t appreciate that he had satellite Russian TV but no American stations besides the economy tier.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke finds himself in trouble at college.

**Meet Your Mate**

**Chapter 13**

 

Luke stared at the questions on the blackboard. “Choose two out of three of the following topics to write a short essay. For maximum credit, please use specific examples.” Luke ran his hand through his blond curls. He couldn’t write about one of the topics, let alone two. “Describe the changing role of the Catholic church in Europe. Explain the role of sea power in the formation of the great powers. Compare and contrast the political and social differences between Europe and Asia in the areas of interface. Special attention should be paid to Russia and Turkey.” Great. The only turkey Luke knew anything about was the cooked bird that appeared on the Thanksgiving table every November, and somehow he didn’t think that was what Milton was talking about. Luke suspected calling the Butterball hotline wouldn’t help with the question.

Luke reread the questions for the third time, not that it was helping. He sketched a turkey on the side of his bluebook, pleading for mercy before an ax wielding pilgrim.

Cartoons decorating the border of his bluebook were not helping Luke come up with an answer. Milton had told Luke to start with an outline, but he’d assumed that Luke would have at least a few ideas. Luke looked around the room. The other students seemed to have the answer; even Mike was madly scribbling. In desperation, Luke wrote the first question in his bluebook; at least it looked like he was writing something. He drew a small church under the question; the drawing blossomed into a cathedral with stained glass windows and crowds of people rushing into the courtyard staring wondrously at the bells on top of the intricate spires. 

Luke twisted around behind him to watch the minute hand of the clock strike the next number. Twenty minutes gone and still not a single word on the topic. Luke absently flipped his pen, catching it after each revolution. He couldn’t hand in a blank test booklet. Luke shut his eyes, remembering breakfast this morning. Trent had stayed and cooked, so they wouldn’t have to eat Tilden’s lumpy oatmeal. Trent had made excuses that business was slow during exam week so there was no need to rush into work. Luke knew that Trent had cooked as a gesture of sympathy with the test takers. More surprising, Milton had left two bluebooks at Luke’s and Mike’s place with a sweet note wishing them luck and teasing them about neglecting to buy bluebooks ahead of time. After Milton’s sweet card, Luke couldn’t face handing in a blank paper.

Luke missed his pen, and it clattered to the floor. He bent down to pick it up, chasing the pen under his backpack and coat. As his hand brushed under his coat, he felt the folded notes in his pocket. Luke glanced up; Milton was engrossed in grading previous exams. Luke unzipped his coat pocket, closed his hand around the papers, picked up the pen, and brought both back to his desk. Luke peeked at Milton again who was still engrossed in grading, seemingly oblivious to the students in front of him. Luke quickly unfolded his papers and slid them into the second bluebook. His eyes scanned down the page until he came to his notes on the Catholic church. Luke started transcribing the notes into an outline; he didn’t see Milton get up until his professor was standing directly behind Luke.

Milton reached down and flipped through the bluebook. The crumpled notes slid from their camouflage. Without a word, Milton picked up both bluebooks and the notes and walked back to the front of the room.

Luke froze like the proverbial deer in the headlights when Milton collected the notes and bluebooks. There was no denying he was cheating. He didn’t need to have signed the college honor code to know that he’d been cheating. It couldn’t be argued that this was a case of accidentally copying a few lines from a text or forgetting a citation; this was black and white cheating in anyone’s book. 

Luke blinked, trying to stop the tears that were threatening to cascade down his cheeks.  He hazarded a glance at Milton who was again absorbed in a test booklet. A test booklet no doubt from an honest student, not a lying, worthless cheat, Luke thought, no longer able to contain the tears. He buried his face in his arms and let the wetness soak into the coarse wool of his sweater. He’d ruined it; there was no way a distinguished college professor would want a cheater for a partner. Luke cried harder, his shoulders shaking. He tried to stifle the noise, letting silent rivers of tears stream down his cheeks.

Luke felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see a silent signal to get up. Milton’s expression was calm; Luke couldn’t describe it as friendly, but it wasn’t fearsome. Milton placed a hand on Luke’s shoulder and pushed him toward the door. As soon as they cleared the classroom and were tucked into a quiet corner in the hall, Milton pulled Luke’s slight frame into his chest.

“You’re in some serious hot water, young man, but it’s not the end of the world. You will fail this class; there’s nothing I can do about it now, and I’m sure your backside will wish that you’d made better choices, but nobody’s going to die here.”

Luke was only half focused on the words as he was already imagining leaving the dusty purple Victorian house that he’d lived in for less than a month, but felt more like a home than his father’s house ever had. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else: Mace and Trent’s great cooking, Milton’s demanding expectations, Sheldon’s wild stories about life at the TV station and his equally wild shifts in mood, and Tilden’s crazy Russian music. He’d miss everything about Tilden and Mike, even the things that irritated him—the rules, the early bedtime, Mike’s complaints about everything. It wasn’t that Luke always liked the restrictions; he just didn’t vocalize every grievance.

Milton shook Luke’s shoulders. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

Startled, Luke raised his head from Milton’s chest. “What?”

Milton placed his hand under Luke’s chin and tilted the smaller man’s head up. “Look at me and listen.” His voice was soft but oddly compelling, demanding Luke’s undivided attention. “I’m not going to sugar coat this. You made a huge mistake, but it’s not the end of the world, even though it may feel like it right now.” Milton’s lips curved into a slight smile. “You should have thought of the consequences before you did it.”

Luke tried to drop his head, but Milton blocked his move to pull away. “I’m sorry,” Luke mumbled. Any resolve that Luke had to act dignified or adult like crumbled under Milton’s steady gaze. Luke tried to burrow back into Milton’s chest. Maybe if he could hide, the day would disappear, and he could start again.

Milton must have recognized Luke’s intention because he kept him at arm’s length. “I won’t let you hide from it, but I won’t be unfair. Are you listening to me?” Milton gave Luke a small shake.

“Yes, sir.” Luke wiped his eyes with the rough sleeve of his sweater. The coarse material scraping against his swollen eyes swiftly brought him back to reality. He braced himself for his impending doom, trying to keep his eyes on Milton. He could at least take this part with dignity. He’d already humiliated himself in front of the class; there was no way they’d missed him crying over an empty desk.

“You will fail this class,” Milton said. “That’s out of my hands.”

“I was already failing. So what’s the difference?”

“Don’t,” Milton said, his voice sharp with warning. “Trying and failing is honorable. Failing because you cheated is disgraceful.”

Luke jerked at Milton’s words as if he’d been slapped. He’d been screamed at more times than he could count, but Milton’s words hurt more than any hysterical admonishment from his father. He’d long ago stopped listening to his father.

“Luke.” Milton ran his hand down the shaking brat’s back. “Tilden loves you. No matter what fool behavior you indulge in, he will love you. But neither of us condone this behavior. You live with two professors; we expect absolute academic integrity. We’d like you to be successful in school, and we’ll help you, but we expect honest success.”

“I just didn’t want to fail,” Luke whispered, swallowing hard to keep fresh tears at bay.

“We should have told you this, but we didn’t want to cause defeatism. Both Tilden and I expected you to fail this class. You came with no background and no study skills. It would be unreasonable to expect you to do well. I was prepared to give you an incomplete, so we could work together during January term to remedy your academic shortcomings.”

Luke bit his cheek to keep from crying again and nodded. Why did school always cause such a problem? It wasn’t fair; he tried. It just never went right for him.

“Do you understand I can’t give you an incomplete now? I have to fail you.”

“I’m sorry,” Luke muttered. 

Milton didn’t stop Luke from burrowing back into his chest. He wrapped an arm around Luke. “We’ll try to keep as much of the punishment at home as we can, but I have to fail you; that’s not negotiable. It will be on your permanent transcript. You could be expelled for this. The deans don’t usually expel freshmen, but it’s possible.”

“I didn’t know I could be expelled,” Luke mumbled into Milton’s chest.

“Didn’t you read the honor code, or did you just sign it?” Milton asked, his voice uncompromising.

“I don’t remember.”

“You’re not a child. You need to be aware of the consequences of your actions.”

“Tilden’s going to spank me, isn’t he?”

“That’s Tilden’s choice, but I expect so. Now let’s get your face washed, and you back in the classroom. I can’t stay out here, or everyone will be cheating. I can remember when exams weren’t proctored and books didn’t disappear from library tables,” Milton said wistfully.

Except for Mike, no one looked as Luke walked back into the classroom with Milton and sat down again at his empty desk. Mike gazed at Luke and appeared poised to ask a question when Milton shook his head. Luke curled into a ball, trying to hide his head in his hands. He alternated between feeling that the clock was moving with agonizing slowness to wishing the period would never end. Once the period ended, he’d have to tell Tilden, and then there would be the ordeal with the deans. Dean Tyler seemed like a good guy, but disapproval practically seeped out of Dean Groat’s pores every time Luke passed her on campus. Tyler was the dean of men. Maybe he wouldn’t have to talk to the devil in the red dress.

The bell rang and Milton began collecting papers. Most students seemed ready to relinquish their masterpieces, but several he had to cajole or coerce to gain custody of their precious bluebooks. A few students must have noted Luke’s lack of an exam because they gave him a curious stare as they filed out of the room.

Mike raised an eyebrow and mouthed, “What happened to yours?” as he passed Luke’s desk to hand in his test.

As the room cleared, Luke turned toward Mike who was fiddling with his jacket and slowly replacing his pens into his book bag, trying to hide that he had to wait for Milton. “I had my notes out.” Somehow saying you had notes out sounded less awful than “I was cheating.”

Mike stopped playing with the multitude of zippers on his backpack and stared at Luke. “If you’re going to cheat at least pick a class where you have half a chance not to get caught. Sitting up front and cheating is suicide.”

“Thanks for the brilliant advice. As if I don’t know it now.”

“Hey, don’t get all hot and bothered with me. My butt can’t take anymore.” Mike lowered his voice and passed a hand over his corduroy clad rump. “Did Milton say what he was going to do to you?” 

“No,” Luke said, running his fingers through his hair, “besides failing me.”

The classroom had cleared and Milton came up behind the two young men. “Let’s go.”

Milton placed his arm around Luke’s shoulders. Luke wasn’t sure if it was to provide comfort or to prevent him from escaping.

Tilden was in his office with a young woman, completing her final oral test for advanced Russian. Luke couldn’t fully understand the words, but it sounded like Tilden was encouraging the woman to answer more completely, and he kept repeating a few key phrases as if hoping she would pick up on the hint and use those phrases in her answer. Finally the slow, torturous interview was over, and she left the office. 

Tilden smiled at the three men. “This is a surprise. I thought Luke and Mike were going home with you this afternoon.”

“There’s been a change of plan,” Milton said, keeping Luke secured at his side. “Luke cheated on the history exam.”

Luke shriveled under Tilden’s gaze of disappointment and hurt. “I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking,” Luke managed to choke out before the tears overwhelmed him.

“Can’t you just leave him alone,” Mike burst out. “You’re already going to fail him. What more do you want? Fucking blood?”

“That’s enough,” Milton hissed and pushed Mike toward a corner cluttered with bundles of old copies of _Pravda_ and _Izvestia_. “Stand there and settle down before you get yourself in trouble.”

Mike started to argue, but Luke interrupted, “Don’t. Please. It’s my fault. I deserve it.”

Tilden rose from the desk and guided Mike into the corner. “Misha, think. We won’t hurt Luke.” Mike took a deep breath and seemed to actively force a calm over himself by taking deep slow breaths. Tilden squeezed Mike’s shoulder and whispered, “ _Spasibo_ ,” before turning toward Luke. “Luka, you’ve gotten yourself in a mess, haven’t you?”

Luke nodded and moved toward Tilden, wanting nothing more than the feel of Tilden’s arms around him. The same arms that would surely spank him later today. Luke buried his head in Tilden’s chest and sighed as his top’s arms enclosed him. Tilden and Milton began discussing something over Luke’s head. He paid little attention. They were tops; they would know what to do. In the haze of conversation, he heard Tilden phone Trent and Milton call Dean Tyler. Milton arranged a meeting with the dean in thirty minutes, and Trent was going to pick up Mike and take him to the cafe.

 

 

The dean’s office was in the old science complex, a building that wasn’t the highlight of campus tours. Luke climbed the crumbling concrete steps, glad for Tilden’s arm around his shoulders. They entered the grimy hallway lit with flickering fluorescent lights and the pale winter sunlight that managed to seep through the grimy windows. The hall smelled faintly of cat urine, most likely the odors of tens of years of failed chemistry experiments. Dean Tyler’s office was on the second floor in a stifling corridor decorated with faded posters extolling the virtues of nuclear power and describing the proper procedure for duck and cover and building a homemade bomb shelter. 

The dean was sitting in his office, leaning back in a battered chair that had to be the same vintage as the posters in the hall. His jacket and tie were off, tossed haphazardly on a dented metal filing cabinet. His sleeves were rolled up, but there were still beads of sweat on his forehead. The two windows were thrown open, trying to relieve the summertime in Chicago climate of the office. “Hi,” Dean Tyler waved them inside. “Try to make yourself comfortable or as comfortable as is possible in this hothouse. Building maintenance promised to come over and adjust the radiators when I insisted that I could boil water without the aid of a Bunsen burner, but so far they haven’t made good on their promise.”

Luke couldn’t help smiling slightly at Dean Tyler’s light comments, and the incongruity of the sauna type atmosphere with the damp of November. As if trying to prove his point, a saucepan with two eggs sat on a radiator. Luke could see a slight wave in the water as if it were just below the boiling threshold.

“Ah, I see you’ve seen my little experiment. I thought some fresh hard boiled eggs might egg on the maintenance staff.” Dean Tyler laughed at his own joke.  “You better get your coats and sweaters off, or you’ll be as cooked as the eggs in a few minutes.”

Luke, Tilden and Milton stripped off their coats and sweaters. “Why is it so hot in here?” Luke blurted out uncomfortable with the silence that had come over the room.

“Ah, you’re too young to remember the joys of radiator heat,” Dean Tyler said with a slight smile. “Luke, are you OK?”

Luke nodded but kept his eyes on the floor. Couldn’t the dean just get on with it? 

“Hey, you can talk to me. I may be the dean, but I also understand your private life, and I know what it feels like to have an ax hanging over my head.”

“Thanks,” Luke murmured. “I know I’m in deep trouble.” Luke braved a glance at Tilden and Milton before dropping his eyes back to the floor. “Can we please get this over with?”

“Luke, do you contest Milton’s claim that you were cheating on the exam?” Dean Tyler asked.

“No, sir.”

“Since you’ve violated the honor code, you could be expelled.”

Luke swallowed hard and blanched. If Tilden hadn’t ruffled his hair at that moment, he thought he would have burst into tears again.

“You’re a freshman, and you have a partner who I’m sure will make you understand the gravity of your error.” Dean Tyler tapped his pen on the desk before continuing. “You will receive an F for this semester in Professor Brown’s class, and if this incident is ever repeated, you will be suspended. This F may cause your grades to fall within the range of academic probation. You will be responsible for any consequences associated with a deficient academic average.  Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir, and I’m sorry, sir.”

“I’m sure you are. You’re not a bad boy, just a young man who forgot to think the situation through,” Dean Tyler said, his deep voice rumbling with warmth and affection. “Listen to Tilden.” He mopped his brow with a crumpled handkerchief. “Now get out of here. I don’t need any more body heat in this room.”

Luke heard Milton and Tilden thank Dean Tyler for his kindness and practically scrambled from the office with only Tilden’s grip on his shoulder preventing him from running down the stairs. Luke gulped the damp November air as they escaped the building. His relief was short lived as his thoughts turned to the remainder of the punishment that Dean Tyler had hinted at. Tilden would surely spank him; he’d probably paddle him. Luke remembered the hot burn after his episode at the frat party and wondered where cheating fell on the scale of crimes. He leaned against Tilden, concerned about the disappointment that he must have caused his partner; after all, Tilden was a professor.

“Yes, you’re getting spanked, but it will be OK, _druzhok_ ,” Tilden whispered into Luke’s ear. 

Luke looked up and let himself study his partner’s expression for the first time. It was firm with no merry twinkle in those amazing deep blue eyes, but it wasn’t angry, not the red blustery expression that he used to see on his father. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

“You’re my boy; I’m supposed to know.” 

As they passed the history building, Milton drifted off back to his office, leaving Tilden and Luke to walk home alone. Conversation didn’t seem necessary as Luke pressed himself close, trying to merge into his top’s body. Luke imagined himself drawing the two of them walking across campus; there would be only a single shadow in the pale winter sun. 

They entered the house from the kitchen and Tilden disentangled himself from his young partner. “Go wait in the study in the corner. Take your trousers off.”

Luke flinched at the words and hurried toward the study. From the time Milton had grabbed his bluebook, Luke knew a spanking was coming, but only now when the reality was but minutes away did the true dread settle in his stomach. The study was warm, but Luke could feel goosebumps forming on his bare legs. He fingered the books on the shelves. Most of the titles were incomprehensible, but he did recognize _War and Peace_ and the English translation of _Crime and Punishment_. Luke traced his finger over the gold embossed lettering on the Dostoyevsky novel; its title seemed appropriate.

“Luka, come here.” Tilden was sitting in the middle of the room; the paddle tucked between the chair’s legs.

Luke forced his feet one in front of the other, feeling like a Russian convict must have felt starting the long march to frozen Siberia. He crouched over Tilden’s lap and lowered himself onto his top’s thighs. Luke felt Tilden’s arms shift his weight more forward. A warm hand stroked his ass and in one fast motion drew his boxers down. The cold air struck his ass, sending shivers down Luke’s spine. How had he been so stupid? He was a submissive; his dominant was a professor. Of course Luke was going to end up ass end up if he did a fast one on a test. He wasn’t a cheat. Why?

“What’s this spanking for?”

“Cheating,” Luke choked out, his face already wet with tears of shame.

“Why did you cheat?”

“I don’t know,” Luke whined.

“Try again.” Tilden’s hand was resting on Luke’s exposed flesh like some kind of macabre warning.

Luke drew a shuddering breath. He was rapidly starting to hate the interviews in this position. He felt exposed like an offering to the gods of spanking, a virgin butt instead of a fair maiden.

Tilden must have thought Luke had delayed too long because he landed two sharp swats. “Why did you cheat?” he repeated.

“I didn’t want to fail.”

“We’ve all failed tests. It’s embarrassing and frustrating, but not the end of the world.”

“But Milton spent so much time helping me.”

“You didn’t want to disappoint us.”

“I’ve always been a disappointment, a disgrace to the family name,” Luke cried out. He could feel his tears dripping off his cheeks onto the floor.

“Luka,” Tilden said in an anguished whisper, tracing his finger downs Luke’s back. “Did your father hurt you?”

“No, he’d yell, turn red, slam doors, and then say he had a crisis at work and disappear for days. I hated it. I wanted to do better, to make him proud of me.”

“You will do better, but you don’t cheat no matter the circumstances.” Tilden spanked hard and fast. Luke couldn’t stop himself from bucking with every swat. Luke gasped for breath as Tilden shifted his weight and reached for the paddle. Luke let out a wail as the first blow fell. “I’ll never cheat again. Please,” Luke blubbered.

Tilden didn’t pause and the paddle continued to fall rapidly. Luke’s cries at each stroke soon blended into a continuous wail. Luke kept crying long after the paddling stopped. Tilden eased Luke down between his knees and wrapped his arms around his sobbing partner, murmuring a litany of reinsurances into his ear. Luke sniffled and buried his head into Tilden’s lap. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I know, _druzhok_.” Tilden planted a firm kiss on Luke’s forehead. “It’s all over. You do have to write a paper for Milton on the history of cheating, and I have some lines and special vocabulary words for you to copy out twenty times, but you’re forgiven. Can you move to the sofa now? You’ll be more comfortable there.”

Luke nodded and let Tilden pull him to his feet. He lay on the sofa with his head draped across Tilden’s lap, hiccuping and sniffling as Tilden combed his fingers through Luke’s blond curls. Luke’s butt throbbed, but he felt lighter than he’d felt all day. I must be crazy, he thought. Happy to get my ass thrashed. He was too weary to consider it further and shut his eyes. As he drifted off into a light doze, he reflected sleepily that whether he understood it or not, he felt safe. No harm would come to him in this household. Tilden would emphasize his disapproval, but all three of them would wake up in the same bed the next day.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke finds out about Sheldon's past.

 

**Meet Your Mate**

**Chapter 14**

 

Luke squirmed on the kitchen chair; he’d never known that an innocent, everyday item could be an object of torture. He tried to concentrate on the list of words in front of him covering topics that could be related to cheating or exams. His favorite was _shpargalki_ , which sounded like a new flavor of Italian ice cream but really meant crib notes. At least the vocabulary was more interesting than the honor code. He had to copy the honor code twenty times a day for the next week. He could already practically recite the thing verbatim. By the end of the week, he’d probably be able to do it backward and forward and in more than one language.

The kitchen door banged; it had to be Sheldon. For a slight man, he could rattle the windows when he closed a door, and the floor shook when he walked. “Hey, I’m home.”

“Yes, we see,” Tilden said, steadying the icon on the wall that was now swinging wildly from the aftershocks of the door closing. “Sheldon, the goal is to keep the house standing after you enter.”

“Sorry, Tilden, you know me,” Sheldon said with an apologetic grin.

“Go back out and come in without shaking the foundation.”

“You’ve got a stick up your butt today.”

Tilden jumped off the counter, where he’d been grading papers, and landed two swats on Sheldon’s hip as he hustled him back out the door. “Don’t push me today.”

“Two boys getting to your legendary patience,” Sheldon said with a grin.

“No, but three are. I asked you to go out and come back in like a gentleman. I’m still waiting.”

Sheldon stomped out the door. Only Tilden’s hand on the knob prevented the door from reverberating in the frame as he exited onto the back stoop. Sheldon came back in with exaggerated care, closing the door with infinite caution and bowing before Tilden. “Does that meet your majesty’s expectations?”

“Well done, my good sir. Now I require multiple proclamations for the royal court.” Tilden pointed to the kitchen table. “Sit. Write.”

“I guess I went too far,” Sheldon said to Luke. Sheldon didn’t look upset at his impending punishment as he bounced into the chair like a red-haired pixie. “And now I get to join you. Tilden’s a bear about lines; he always makes me do part of them in Russian, and my Russian’s bad.”

“Would you prefer that I send you to your room and let Milton spank you?” Tilden dropped a pad of paper and two pens in front of Sheldon. “I wrote the sentence in both Russian and English. I won’t make you do the translation, unless you want me to?”

“Oh, no,” Sheldon said with a wide grin. “If you make me do the translation, we’ll be here til midnight.”

Luke studied Tilden, his lines forgotten. It sounded like they were teasing each other, but Sheldon was in trouble. How could he seem amused about the prospect? Luke rubbed his hand; he hated lines. For the stuff in Russian, Tilden insisted that his hand writing be precise, something about Russian penmanship being more uniform. Tilden had given Luke the tiny graph paper that Russians tended to favor for writing paper, but as an American he would have preferred normal college ruled notebook paper. Luke bent back over the paper and painstakingly copied the verbs “to take an exam” and “to pass an exam” for the fifth time. The perfective meant “to pass” and the imperfective meant “to take the test with no comment on success.” At least there were only two forms, not like the verb “to read” with its myriad of prefixes that could mean “to read to completion,” “to glance at or to skim,” or anything in between. Tilden had just introduced the crazy notion of perfective and imperfective verbal pairs, stating that it was the most difficult moment in Russian, and at least in Luke’s mind, it seemed that Tilden must stay up nights scheming on how to introduce new verbs to Luke and Mike. 

Sheldon couldn’t have written more than two or three sentences before he whispered to Luke, “So, what got you in trouble?”

“School,” Luke wasn’t sure he wanted to share more details with Sheldon. Milton’s partner had a wicked tongue, even if only in fun, and Luke wasn’t up to being laughed at.

“It had to have been big the way you’re shifting around in that chair. You must’ve been paddled.”

“Sheldon, do your lines.” Tilden’s voice had a different cadence to it than the previous exchange about the door.

Sheldon must have heard the new inflection and tone because he mumbled a quick, “Yes, sir,” and dropped his eyes to his work.

The only sound in the kitchen was the scratch of pens, the rustle of papers, and the occasional groan from Tilden when he had to add numerous red marks to a student’s paper. Luke had seen Tilden grade enough papers to know that an F probably caused the professor more distress than the student. Tilden was now mumbling to himself as he scribbled on the paper.

“This is a third year student and she can’t even translate a simple sentence about a boy going to the park. What six year old drives a car back and forth multiple times to the park? Luka, how do you say Pasha goes to the park?”

“ _Pasha idyot v park.”_

“You’ve had less than three months of Russian, and you got it right. _Maladets._ This person couldn’t even get that sentence right. I can’t give points for creative misuse of Russian.” Tilden tossed the paper down in frustration and stood, locking his arms behind his head and stretching. “I’d like to go pick up Mike. Do you think you two can refrain from killing each other while I’m gone?”

“Yes, sir,” both Luke and Sheldon said in unison.

“ _Maledtsi_ , you can talk together, but work on your lines, and Sheldon don’t pick on Luke.”

“I hear you loud and clear, _tovarishch kapitan,_ ” Sheldon said with a mock solute.

“I mean it, boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Luke watched Tilden pull on his coat and hat, more than a little nervous to be left alone with Sheldon. He inched his chair away from Sheldon as if he expected Sheldon to start acting like his cousins behaved on long car trips. Luke remembered being the butt of many unpleasant jokes and more than his fair share of slaps and kicks from his cousins. It had always seemed that they started it, but that he got punished, yelled at, and dragged up to the front seat to sit between his cousins’ parents and to listen to their grueling lectures on appropriate vehicle etiquette. Each night they would stop at a tiny motel with a handful of rooms and yellowing tile in the shower. Invariably Luke would end up on the floor, wrestling with one or both cousins, and when they went out to dinner, he’d be left sitting on the bed to think about his inappropriate behavior. He’d end up eating a cold and greasy take out supper alone while his cousins raced around the motel grounds or swam in the pool. Luke was sure he was supposed to remember the trips to the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone with fondness; instead he remembered them with dread. Sitting alone next to Sheldon gave him that same feeling of dread.

Luke felt Tilden’s hands on his shoulders and a faint kiss on the back of his neck, only a tickle. “Sheldon won’t bite, and he might be able to help. He’s really very sweet; he just likes to play,” Tilden whispered, and then he was gone.

Tilden had only been out the door a few seconds before Sheldon started wiggling and grinning. “So, are you going to tell me what got you in such trouble, or will I have to pry it out of you? I have my methods,” Sheldon said with an atrocious, fake German accent.

“Leave me alone. I’ve got to get this done.” Luke hunched his shoulders, curling into a ball over his paper.

“Tilden’s not worried about us finishing, or he wouldn’t have left. If a top’s serious about punishment, he supervises it. Trust me. I’ve been on the receiving end of plenty of serious punishment. Milton likes a short leash.”

Luke remained silent, pretending to be engrossed in his vocabulary list. 

“The strong silent type. I have a cure for that,” Sheldon said with a laugh, got up, and vanished upstairs for a moment. He came back downstairs carrying a small desk lamp. Sheldon had changed into old fashioned riding pants that ballooned out over his thighs and tall, black boots. He plugged in the light and shined it straight into Luke’s eyes. “You will tell me everything,” he said, pronouncing the w’s as v’s and making harsh guttural sounds.

“Sheldon, stop. I need to get this done. They’re already furious with me.”

“You will tell me everything,” Sheldon repeated.

“Sheldon please,” Luke choked, swallowing back the tears.

“You are such a good boy,” Sheldon mocked, moving the light.

“No, I’m not.” Luke buried his face in his arms. He wasn’t going to cry in front of Sheldon. He’d never hear the end of it. He could just imagine Sheldon laughing and pointing at him. He’d probably tape a big sign that said cheater on Luke’s back or something equally horrible.

“Hey, hey, hey, I was just trying to have some fun.” Luke was surprised to feel Sheldon’s hand gently stroke his back and massage his neck. “I’m sorry. What happened today?”

Maybe it was the soothing strokes on his back or the sudden concerned tone but Luke blurted out his dreadful deed before he could stop himself. “Milton caught me cheating.”

“Bad, huh. Join the club. Did he tell you about the time he caught me?” Sheldon said, pulling Luke’s head out of his hands. “You know, you don’t have a monopoly on stupid behavior.”

“What happened?” Luke asked.

“It’s a long, gruesome story. Let me make some cocoa, and I’ll tell you the highlights.” Sheldon bounced over to the stove and with a terrific clatter of pans started the cocoa.

Luke bent back to his lines only to stop again when Sheldon passed him a steaming mug of hot chocolate. “Won’t you get in trouble if your lines aren’t finished?”

“Maybe,” Sheldon said with a shrug. “It won’t be the first time. I won’t break, and I can write and talk at the same time.” Sheldon blew on his cocoa and took a long swig. “So, Milton caught you, huh. At least you’re in a relationship with Tilden. I got nailed when I’d hardly met Milton and then had the audacity to lie to him. It wasn’t a smooth move. It did get me here though, just in a roundabout way. So I guess it turned out OK, and it will for you also.” 

 

****

 

As Sheldon started to tell Luke the highlights of his misadventures with internet papers, he was surprised at how the details of the event came streaming back as if it were yesterday.

 

 

“Mr. Zath,” Professor Brown said, leaning over Sheldon’s desk, “You will meet me in my office immediately after class. This meeting is not optional.”

Sheldon sagged in his chair as the professor stepped away. Sheldon had always thought the idea of someone freezing your blood with words as highly improbable until it had just happened. With just those two sentences, his professor had caused goosebumps to form on his legs and an aura of controlled dread hung over his head like a stubborn thunder cloud in high summer.

What had he done? The rest of the class was getting their papers back, and all he had was a threat. A serious threat if the professor’s tone of voice and piercing black eyes were any way to judge. Could he know? No, that was impossible; the website had guaranteed that their papers were undetectable by all known plagiarism software. Plus Professor Brown was a visiting instructor, he certainly had better things to do than search for cheating students when he wasn’t a full time faculty member. It was the professor’s visiting status that had led Sheldon to select this course. He figured it would be an easy way to gain the final humanities credits blocking his path to graduation. Sheldon couldn’t have been more wrong. It was some kind of brutal combination of history and literature that required thousands of pages of dull reading. The CliffsNotes version of the Russian classics or Hollywood films were not adequate to answer the intricate exam questions. It was spring quarter, time for playing Frisbee on the quad, not sitting in a dusty library with _Anna Karenina_.

Sheldon watched as Professor Brown returned to his podium and started today’s lecture. Sheldon had always thought Professor Brown was good looking in a dark, mysterious way as if his ancestors hailed from the ancient silk roads. Today when Brown loomed over his student, Sheldon could imagine him planning invasions with Chinggis Kahn and the Golden Horde.  Watching Brown was at least some compensation for suffering through the tortures of the final tsars. When Sheldon listened, Brown was a good lecturer, but today he couldn’t keep his mind on the subject. Sheldon kept seeing the professor leaning over his desk. He could almost taste the menace; Sheldon swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. The only time Sheldon had seen such controlled power is when he and his friends had, on a lark, gone to a leather bar and gotten smashed. They’d been hustled into a taxi by two doms in exquisitely tight leather pants. If Sheldon hadn’t been terrified, he would’ve propositioned one or both of them. Needless to say, he’d never had the courage to go back. 

Maybe the professor was a dom. Sheldon shuddered as he imagined the kiss of the whip across his back. No, that was ridiculous; he probably had a wife who taught art history and two children in private school on the honor roll. Sheldon’s fantasies were interrupted by the bell. Sheldon stood and shoved his notebook in his backpack when he realized that he had no idea where the professor’s office was located. He loitered at his desk pretending to repack his bag and tie his shoe until the classroom emptied out.

“I thought I told you to meet me in my office,” a quiet voice hissed in his ear.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know where it is.” Sheldon was surprised by the deference in his voice. He usually spoke to a professor like a peer; he’d even been known to call a few by their first names.

“Follow me,” Professor Brown said with a curt nod.

Sheldon trailed the professor down two flights of stairs to a stark, tiny office in the basement. It looked more like a monk’s cell than an office. A monk’s cell would have had more decorations; at least a crucifix would have adorned the institutional green walls. The only natural light was from a small, glass block window mounted high on one wall. Professor Brown didn’t sit; instead, he leaned against the desk, his arms crossed, and he didn’t invite Sheldon to sit either. Sheldon eyed the two papers on the battered steel desk.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Brown demanded. The ice in his voice could have snapped power lines.

Sheldon licked his lips and stared at the scuffed tile floor. He thought he spotted mouse droppings in the far corner.

“Boy,” the professor’s voice cracked like a whip. “Look at me.”

Sheldon dragged his eyes up from the floor and tried to assume his most open and innocent expression as he sought the professor’s face. Sheldon shivered as he was captured in the pools of molten blackness. Without conscious thought, Sheldon spread his feet to shoulder width apart, dropped his head, and shifted his arms behind him, clasping his right wrist in his left hand, the picture of a submissive parade rest.

“Get your eyes off the floor, boy. You can’t hide from me down there.”

Sheldon jerked his head up. He’d never had a teacher speak to him like this. What did he think he was, his slave? Sheldon was prepared for a dramatic outburst, but a glare from Professor Brown froze the words in his mouth.

“I’m going to ask you one more time why are you here, Mr. Zath?”

“I don’t know,” Sheldon croaked when it became obvious that Brown wasn’t going to continue until he produced an answer.

“What was the topic of your paper?”

“The aristocracy’s changing views of serfdom in Russia.”

“Yes, and where did you get it?”

“I wrote it.”

“Do you want to try that again?” Professor Brown’s voice was deceptively soft, as if he were having a chat at an elegant tea party.

Sheldon shifted nervously but remained silent.

Brown reached behind him, picked up the two papers, and handed them to Sheldon. “This is the paper you turned in as your own work, and this is my friend’s paper from graduate school. As you will notice, they are identical.”

Sheldon stood, grasping the two papers, unable to look at them.

“Look at them,” Professor Brown roared. “Read the second paragraph for me.”

Sheldon stared at the papers. The identical sentences danced in front of eyes like a group of devils circling a bond fire. In a shaky voice, he read the paragraph in his paper.

“Now read the other paragraph.”

“It’s identical, sir.”

“Yes, it is. Do you want to revise your story?”

Sheldon squirmed under Professor Brown’s sharp glare. “Yes, sir. I purchased it off the internet.”

“From where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you still want to lie to me?”

Professor Brown didn’t mince words. He was now standing practically on Sheldon’s worn running shoes. Sheldon arched away, trying to get out of his icy glare. “No, sir.”

“Where did you get the paper?”

“Papertown on the internet.”

“Have you done this before?”

Sheldon scuffed his foot against the faded tile and remained silent.

“I assume that’s a yes,” Professor Brown said with a weariness in his voice. “It’s probably too late to save you, but you’re going to hear this anyway.” He took the papers from Sheldon’s hand and tossed them on the desk. Professor Brown gave Sheldon the most scorching, devastating lecture on academic integrity and overall honesty that he’d ever heard.

Sheldon swallowed hard and blinked back tears. He wasn’t going to cry, not in front of this arrogant bastard.

“Mr. Zath, you have failed this class. If I were the dean, you would fail the semester, and I would place a note on your transcripts. I guess for you it’s fortunate I’m not the dean. I have informed your academic advisor of the plagiarized paper and have been told a failure in my course will prevent your graduation this spring as it was a required humanities credit. Use your time wisely, young man, because you have been given a second chance. Good day.”

Sheldon stood, shocked. He’d hoped he’d only have to redo the paper or worst case fail the class. He’d forgotten that without these credits he wouldn’t meet the humanities requirement for the college of arts and science, and it sounded like convincing his advisor to waive the requirement was out of the question. That bastard Brown was responsible for this. Sheldon dragged himself out of the office and wandered aimlessly around the campus, wiping his eyes on his sleeve until he found a secluded bench and collapsed on its worn surface between the carved initials of lovers and let the tears flow freely. 

The sun was dropping behind the trees when Sheldon felt a hand on his knee. He jerked, expecting it to be a homeless guy laying claim to the bench or a campus cop urging him to move on. Instead it was Professor Brown who was crouched down in front of Sheldon, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Are you OK?” Brown asked his voice just one notch above a whisper.

“Yeah, no thanks to you.” Sheldon wiped his eyes with short, vicious strokes.

“Have you been here since class this morning?”

Sheldon nodded, clutching his backpack to his chest.

“Is your car here?”

“No I took the T.” 

“I’ll walk you to your stop.”

“After you’ve totally fucked my life over, you’re now being the Good Samaritan. What are you some kind of pervert? Get off on making college students miserable?”

“Have you eaten?”

“What that’s got to do with anything?” Sheldon yelled in frustration. He couldn’t figure out this professor. Brown had given him a blistering lecture this morning, but now his voice was soft, almost lulling. He should be angry. Sheldon had said enough for the most saintly, cookie baking grandmother to use a wooden spoon for more than mixing.

“Perhaps low blood sugar is causing your irrational behavior.” Brown snagged Sheldon’s book bag and swung it over his broad shoulder and headed towards the street crowded with cheap eateries, combination nail salons and tattoo parlors, and boutiques selling certified organic dog food and free trade cotton.

Brown was fifty feet down the path, disappearing between the high bushes when Sheldon took off after him. “Wait; you’ve got my stuff.” Brown didn’t pause, and Sheldon was forced to chase after him. Sheldon caught up with his professor as the path merged onto the main thoroughfare. The sidewalks were clogged with students—groups holding hands and smiling; revolutionary types, barefoot with long flowing hair, arguing amongst themselves and forcing literature on all comers; and pale, haggard premed students clutching oversized science textbooks. Brown took the pamphlets from the Young Communist League and the Warriors for Texas and shoved them in the pocket of his khakis, never breaking stride. 

Professor Brown slowed and entered Joe’s Hamburger Shack. As always it was crowded, and the smell of hamburgers on the grill and chocolate shakes hung in the air. Brown weaved his way to the counter and ordered two hamburgers, fries, and Cokes. He grabbed an order number and retreated to the rear of the restaurant where it was less crowded and the noise was at a minimum. Sheldon was forced to follow as his professor still had firm control of his backpack. Sheldon sat in the chair across from his nemesis and stared at the photos on the surrounding walls. He’d been here plenty of times with his buds but never paid attention to the decor; he was usually too busy talking and laughing. The photos showed scenes of cops beating rioters with truncheons and dragging men clad in odd bits of leather into a paddy wagon.

“Joe was a gay rights activist and a leather man long before it became socially acceptable.”

Sheldon snapped his head around at Brown’s voice and stared at his professor with open curiosity. A vision of his professor in tight leather pants, an open white silk shirt, and a coiled whip in his hand flashed through Sheldon’s mind. Sheldon blinked and came back to reality as Brown started speaking again.

“I’m a historian and have a special interest in the civil rights movement worldwide.”

Sheldon nodded. For a moment, he felt disappointed. Had he wanted his professor to declare that he was gay and that he played hard every weekend? The whole idea was beyond ridiculous. At best Professor Brown saw Sheldon as an errant student, at worst a stray puppy who needed a meal and a pat on the head before being dropped off at the humane society. And yet his mind kept picturing Brown at one of those bars where subtle, agreed-upon signals made a guy’s interest clear. Wouldn’t he look hot in tight 501 jeans and a rainbow handkerchief in his left pocket? But Brown was a historian. He probably wouldn’t use the simple color codes for gay, straight, or bisexual but the more complicated ones from the golden age of gay night life. 

Stop it, Sheldon told himself. This is the bastard that screwed up your graduation, and he probably has a wife and two lovely kids waiting for him in suburbia.

A teen with more piercings than Sheldon wanted to contemplate dropped their lunch on the table with a resounding bang, interrupting Sheldon’s musing. Much to Sheldon’s relief, Professor Brown didn’t try to talk except to offer the condiments. Sheldon didn’t think he could’ve managed an intelligible conversation with the overwhelming feelings of guilt and embarrassment being top dressed with an overlay of lust.

When they had finished, Brown dumped the remains of their lunch and dropped a few coins on the table for a tip before slinging Sheldon’s backpack over his shoulder. “Where do you live?”

“On the blue line, fifth stop.”

“Come on.” Brown walked out of the restaurant to the transit stop without looking back, leaving Sheldon to scramble behind him or risk losing his bag. At the stop, Brown pulled out a smart transit card. “Do you have a transit pass?”

“I forgot to buy one.”

Brown raised an eyebrow and shook his head but reached into his pocket for the correct change.

Sheldon stared at his professor, an expression of open dismay on his face. Sheldon’s apartment was in a less than desirable building. Secretly he wondered what his neighbors were selling since unsavory people came and went at all hours of the day and night, and his own apartment looked like he needed an emergency management team and their hazmat trucks. Something told him if Professor Brown saw the apartment, he’d be spending the rest of the evening cleaning, and he didn’t have the energy for that. He’d never seen Brown without his perfectly ironed khakis and oxford shirt in the exciting colors of white or light blue and polished dress shoes.

The bells of the arriving train clanged before Sheldon could elaborate on the upcoming nightmare. The train was crowded, and they both ended up standing the entire journey, constantly shifting to make way for other passengers. At their stop, Brown signaled for Sheldon to lead the way. They turned down an alley, avoiding the sofa with exposed springs, crossed three sets of railroad tracks, and sprinted across a viaduct before arriving at the back of Sheldon’s apartment building.

“Do you do this at night by yourself?” Professor Brown asked.

“Yeah.”

Brown grimaced but handed Sheldon’s bag over without speaking. As Sheldon turned away, Brown grabbed his wrist and spun him back around. “Don’t do anything foolish tonight. Have a friend over; call your parents; go to that new action flick everyone’s raving about. This is my card.” Professor Brown handed Sheldon a plain white business card with his home, cell, and office numbers on it. “Call me if you need me.” Brown released Sheldon’s wrist, turned around, and left.

Sheldon fingered the card: Milton Brown PhD, Associate Professor of History and Government, Banner College. He almost called out to the figure who was briskly disappearing into the gloom of the alley. Sheldon didn’t understand, but when Brown had grasped his wrist it had felt like—he wasn’t sure—an anchor in the wind.

 

 

Sheldon didn’t see Brown for almost another year and a half. He’d kept the card until he moved out of his student digs, but he could never find the courage to call. 

Sheldon pushed his way towards the barman. He was at a party hosted by a major sponsor of the television station where he now worked as a lowly intern. He’d been surprised that he’d been invited, but the boss, Jack Hamford, had insisted; he’d even given him a ride since Sheldon couldn’t afford a car. Jack, he insisted on being called Jack, said too much formality stifled creativity in the workplace. He insisted that Sheldon would have a good time: live music, dancing, and plenty of free booze. Plus, as Jack had said with a sly grin, it was a chance to see one of the last great estates within commuting distance of Boston. How often did mere interns get to stroll around thousand acre compounds? Sheldon decided the bigwigs had just wanted a peon to fetch and carry. This was the third time he’d waited in line for drinks, and getting his toes stepped on by increasingly inebriated old guys was not his idea of fun. Sheldon grabbed the drinks, three vodka tonics for Jack and his friends and a beer for himself, and made his way back to the table.

Their table was in a dark, out of the way corner, pushed against the band’s sound equipment. Only Jack was still at the table, pushing ice cubes around his empty glass with the miniature pink plastic sword that decorated his last drink.

“Barney and Lee went off to dance with their wives. Come sit over here.” Jack patted the chair that was right next to his ample frame. “We’ll have a nice chat. I always like to find out more about my new interns. They often have such fascinating ideas.”

Sheldon placed the drinks on the table and sat down in the indicated chair, sitting in the far corner of its flimsy seat as far away from Jack as possible. Jack swallowed down the first drink with alarming speed and reached for the second. It seemed to Sheldon as he reached for the second drink that Jack had moved his chair closer and now his thigh almost touched Sheldon’s short clad leg. 

“I understand you think our TV station should offer more gay and bisexual friendly programing.” Jack leaned in close as he spoke.

“Yes, sir.” Sheldon froze as he felt a pudgy hand on his thigh and a thumb start to stroke under the hemline of his shorts.

“You suggested a soap opera featuring all gay couples including a master slave relationship and perhaps a threesome.” Jack was speaking calmly as if it were perfectly normal to be stroking the thigh of his intern.

Sheldon tried to block out the feeling. He wanted to slap the man’s hand away, but he was his boss. Maybe he could make an excuse, an urgent need to use the toilet, and disappear into the crowd. Oh, God, he didn’t have a car, and he didn’t have enough money even if he knew where he was to be able to call a radio car. Where would he go if he did manage to slip away for a moment? The hand was becoming more insistent; it had now wormed its way all the way under his shorts, and he could feel a finger probing for his cock and balls.

“Sheldon dear, I’ve been looking all over for you. So this is where you disappeared to.”

Sheldon snapped his head around to see who had spoken. Professor Brown was standing over the table with his hand held out.

“Come, I have some dear friends who are dying to meet you.” Brown grasped Sheldon’s wrist and pulled him tight to Brown’s chest. “Just smile. But unless I’m badly mistaken that didn’t look consensual,” Brown whispered before continuing to chat about some trivia of mutual acquaintances in a normal tone to Jack.

“It wasn’t,” Sheldon whispered, making no attempt to pull away from the professor’s grip.

Brown slipped his arm around Sheldon’s waist and guided him out of the tent as if they were lovers. He tucked Sheldon’s head against his chest and whispered, “Make this look good.” After they escaped the crowds, Brown released Sheldon’s waist, but Sheldon didn’t step away.  “Do you want me to keep my arm there?”

“Sorry,” Sheldon blurted out, stepping away as he felt his face turning red. “I didn’t want to impose, Professor Brown.”

“You weren’t imposing, and I think you can call me Milton now. You have graduated, haven’t you?” Brown asked, snagging Sheldon’s hand and holding it like two old-fashioned lovers out for an evening summer stroll.

Sheldon blushed deeper, but he didn’t try to pull away. As they strolled around the lake, the sounds of the party faded and soon the sounds of the night insects, the deep strenuous voice of the bullfrogs, and the occasional splash as a disturbed frog or duck made for the water dominated the night symphony, the sounds of the watering hole at night long before man’s roads and machines. In the distance, Sheldon could hear the occasional buzz of traffic and the roar of an airplane overhead stretching the illusion of the natural night but not shattering it.

They must have walked two kilometers along a thin gravel path before Milton spoke again. “Sheldon, who was that man pawing you?”

“My boss.” Sheldon walked another hundred meters in silence. “Thanks for rescuing me. It was more than I deserved.”

“What do you mean?” Brown asked his voice no louder than the crunch of gravel underfoot.

“After last year, you certainly don’t owe me any favors. And tonight without you I would’ve ended up in that slimeball’s bed.”

“No one deserves to be raped.”

“It wouldn’t have been rape, just awful sex.”

Brown halted and turned Sheldon to face him. “Are you telling me you wanted to have sex with that man?” Brown asked.

In the dim light of the waxing moon, Sheldon was sure that Brown couldn’t make out his face or see that his cheeks glistened with silent tears. “No, it wouldn’t be my first choice, but I don’t think he could physically overpower me, so I must be consenting in some way. I don’t think he would physically hurt me.”

“That doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have to be physical force. Economic or emotional force is just as wrong.”

“Oh, God, you live in such a perfect world. I cheated to get ahead. What’s so different about using a little sex to get ahead?” Sheldon jerked his hand out of Brown’s grip and stomped off down the path.

“Sheldon Zath.” Professor Brown’s voice rang out with all the authority that Sheldon remembered from that dreadful class. “Is this about using sex to get ahead or punishing yourself for last year? Come back here and talk to me.”

Sheldon hesitated. Brown’s voice cut right through him as if it took over his brain and his legs couldn’t move any farther. He grabbed a handful of pebbles from the path and skipped the small stones into the lake with short angry strokes, but he didn’t keep walking.

Sheldon was still throwing rocks into the lake when Brown reached him and pried his fingers open, forcing the rocks to fall back on the path. “How long have you been punishing yourself?”

“Who gave you the right to walk around in my head?” Sheldon spat.

“No one yet, but I hope you will.” Milton’s voice was soft, almost lulling. Sheldon had to lean toward him to hear the words over the chirping of the night insects. Brown ran his thumb over the back of Sheldon’s hand, making small circles. “I think I misjudged you last year. When you had the audacity to lie to my face, I was angry, and I wanted to shake you badly. I was very harsh when I scolded you about your paper.” Brown was speaking slowly as if he were evaluating each word and phrase before he said it aloud. “That evening when I found you on the bench I should have taken you home with me. The implications of taking a student home—I couldn’t get over my own fears. Not a few times I thought of calling you...” Brown shook himself like a dog after a swim as if he wished he could shed the memories like a dog sheds water.

“Professor—”

“It’s Milton now.”

“Sorry pro—uh—Milton. I cheated. I lied, and it wasn’t the first time. But you were the first person to pull me up short. I tried to hate you when my friends graduated, and I stood on the sidelines. We called you all kinds of vile names; I even considered trashing your car or your house, but it seemed too much effort when we were sober, and you lived too far away for spontaneous, drunken revenge. Oh, God, I’m babbling. I’ll shut up now.”

“Sheldon, my little imp,” Milton said with a fondness in his voice that Sheldon had never heard. “Come here.” Milton tugged Sheldon to his chest and folded his arms around him. “If you want me to let you go, just tell me,” Milton whispered into Sheldon’s ear.

Sheldon knew he should pull away, but he couldn’t. He was comfortable against Milton’s chest; his head tucked into the larger man’s shoulder, the feeling of Milton’s short beard against his cheek. Milton said nothing; he snugged Sheldon against his side and guided Sheldon down the path until they came to a bench tucked into a reed filled shallows. Milton sat and pulled Sheldon down on top of him.

“I asked you the day I gave your paper back if you’d cheated before. You dodged the question, but I assumed the answer was yes. Is that correct?”

Sheldon nodded.

“Tell me about the other times.”

“I paid a math major to do my math homework, and I studied off the old tests for Spanish. We kept them in a file at the fraternity house.” Sheldon took a deep breath before he continued. “I used a paper service for two of my papers in the English lit class I took.”

“How do you feel about those?”

“Like I cheated.” 

“You did.”

Sheldon burrowed deeper into Milton’s chest.

“Do you feel guilty?” Milton prodded, rubbing Sheldon’s back.

“Yeah, I got away with it, but it’s not something I brag about. I’m ashamed now.”

“How do you feel about the time I caught you?”

Sheldon hesitated. “At first I was angry. You’d ruined my plans. Now I don’t know. Guilty, I think.”

“Sheldon, I punished you. You don’t need to feel guilty. Did you retake the class?”

“No, I took a history of television from variety shows to reality TV. I didn’t have to write any papers.”

“Do you feel guilty about that?”

“Yes, I’m not even Catholic, but I’ve got their guilt complex,” Sheldon said sarcastically. “Maybe I should try some self-flagellation. It worked for the saints.”

“Sheldon, how long have you been punishing yourself?”

“I don’t know,” Sheldon whispered. “I’m a jerk; I deserve to have someone hurt me, and you’re being all decent just like you were that evening after you caught me.”

“Do you think I should have left you on the street, easy prey for vagrants, skinheads, and who knows what else?” 

Sheldon sniffed and choked back tears. “I just get away with things all the time. I’m cute and sweet. Nobody ever thinks I’m the one who drinks the last Coke and doesn’t replace it or kicks the copy machine and breaks it. Even you said you would’ve punished me more if the school would’ve allowed it.” Sheldon burst into tears and tried to pull away, embarrassed by his outburst.

“Stop now,” Milton said, his voice crackling in the night air. “You’ve got me in this; now you’re going to deal with me. Am I clear?”

Sheldon froze as Milton’s voice cut through him. “Yes, sir.”

“OK, boy, so what are we going to do about you?”

Boy, Sheldon blinked. He thinks I’m a submissive. “I’m not a sub. I’m not a boy.”

“Sheldon, it’s not a bad thing to be a boy. You’re a submissive, and you like to get in a little trouble. You’d probably like to brat.” Milton brushed Sheldon’s hair from his forehead and kissed him firmly. “I like submissives, and I like you, and I can cope with bratting.”

Sheldon shivered as Milton’s lips brushed against his ear. If he was a submissive or a brat—brat seemed like the less scary word—then Milton must be a top. Oh, God, what did that mean?

Milton must have read Sheldon’s mind. “Yes, I’m a dominant, and I’m unattached.”

Sheldon lay against Milton, enjoying the comfort as he tried to wrap his befuddled mind around the concept of dom and sub. He’d always thought he was vanilla. Well, he did like a little tease and power games and who hadn’t surfed the web, but to allow someone to punish you, to spank you, to put you in a corner, to make you write lines, to control your life—he’d never thought he wanted that. But he liked Milton’s arms around him. “Do you punish your boys?” Sheldon stammered.

“Yes, is that what you want? Will it make you stop punishing yourself?”

Sheldon snuggled closer to Milton, not ready to answer, and Milton seemed content to wait. Finally Sheldon whispered, “Would you spank me?” Jesus, where had that come from. He’d said it now; he couldn’t take it back.

“It won’t be foreplay, not this time,” Milton said, his voice calm as he ruffled Sheldon’s hair.

“Will it hurt?”

“Yes, but I won’t harm you.”

Sheldon swallowed. Why was he having this conversation as if it was something he wanted? “Will it get rid of the guilt?”

“If we do it right.”

Sheldon sat in the darkness, glad that Milton could not see the emotions flooding him like waves in a storm. He listened to the night and his hitching breath. A frog jumped into the pond, and the reeds rustled below him. “I want you to do it.”

“Do what, Sheldon?”

He was going to make him say that frightening word. Sheldon inhaled sharply. “I want you to punish me—to spank me.”

“Have you ever been spanked?”

“No.”

“This won’t be the games I play with a submissive at a club. This is about your inability to let go after your term paper misadventure. I will bend you over my knee, drop your shorts, and spank your bare rump. You’ll want me to stop long before I will. You will cry. It’s a painful, emotionally draining, and exposing activity. Earlier that man was already manipulating your psyche and humiliating you. You must decide if you’re willing to trust me enough to see you unprotected and vulnerable. I won’t do it to harm you or manipulate you, but it’s frightening, perhaps the most frightening thing you’ll ever do, especially the first time. You have to surrender yourself to me. Give me your absolute trust. If you’re not willing to do all these things, spanking you would be wrong.” Milton rubbed Sheldon’s back, not hurrying the young man in his lap.

“If I say no, will you think less of me?” Sheldon managed to say.

“No, this is your decision, not mine. To coerce you either mentally or physically would be abuse.”

“I’m such a screw up,” Sheldon muttered more to himself than to Milton. “Now, I can’t come up with enough guts to go through with this.”

“Sheldon, we can always do this later.”

“No!” Sheldon was surprised by the fierceness in his own voice. “I can’t take feeling this way all the time-—out of control—guilty—useless. Please punish me. Spank me.”

“Sheldon, you understand once I put you over my knee you’re committed until I finish.”

“Yes! Are you going to make me beg?”

“Stand up.” Milton gave Sheldon a gentle push, helping him to his feet. “Take off your shorts and put them on the far side of the bench and then step between my knees. Your safeword is red. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.” Sheldon knew what a safeword was, not that he’d ever thought he'd be using one.

It was a warm night, but Sheldon shivered as he stepped between Milton’s thighs, the warm breeze ruffling his boxers. He couldn’t have worn plain boxers today; no, they had cartoon animals scampering across the seat. 

“OK, you still want to do this?”

“Yeah.” Just get on with it, Sheldon thought, before I chicken out.

“Bend down and grab my ankle; it will help keep you in position.”

Sheldon felt for Milton’s ankle. His eyes were screwed shut, and his breathing was rapid in anticipation of the pain. He felt Milton wrap his left arm around his waist and secure his hand behind his back.

“I’m going to hold your hand this time. I don’t want to swat your fingers if you move.” Milton took down Sheldon’s boxers and laid his hand on Sheldon’s butt. “Breathe, boy. Have we talked enough?”

Sheldon managed to nod. He was shaking, and Milton hadn’t touched him yet. Suddenly he felt Milton lift his hand and then a sharp sting as it came down on his right cheek. Before he could adjust, flames landed on his left cheek. Milton spanked fast; Sheldon quickly lost the battle with tears. “Stop. It hurts,” he choked.

“Breathe. I’ll get you through this.” Milton’s voice was soft, but he didn’t slow the rhythm of the spanking.

Sheldon jerked, trying to shield his ass any way he could. Milton had to stop soon; his hand would be bruised. A swat landed on his thigh, and Sheldon wailed. His tears were continuous as he hung over Milton’s knee, clutching Milton’s ankle as if it were a life preserver on the high seas. Sheldon could no longer hear the swats over the sound of his sobbing. 

Milton was rubbing his back, murmuring a litany of reassurance.  Sheldon wasn’t sure for how long the spanking had been over. He should have listened to Milton; he’d warned Sheldon loud and clear. People did this for fun. Were they crazy? Sheldon felt Milton swing him back on his lap with infinite care not to touch Sheldon’s burning ass.

“I’ve got you now. Cry all you want.”

Sheldon leaned into Milton. Gradually his sobs faded to soft hiccups and a slight wheeze in his breathing. “I’m sorry I’m such a wimp.”

“Didn’t I tell you that you would cry?”

“Not like this, I’m a baby.”

“You needed to cry, and if this gives you the outlet you need, I can provide it.” Milton wiped Sheldon’s cheek and kissed his forehead. “Are we all square now? No more guilt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy. Do you think you can get up?”

“Don’t leave me here!” Sheldon said with rising panic in his voice.

“Never.”

That single work carried more force than any vague promises and insincere platitudes that Sheldon had heard from a parade of people. Sheldon wrapped his arms around Milton and kissed him on his cheek.

“I’m going to walk you to my car, make your excuses to that delightful man who was your escort, and then take you home. We’ll sort everything else out in the morning.”

“You’re a wreck. I got tears and snot all over your shirt.”

“It’s dark. No one will notice.”

It seemed to take forever to walk to the car. Sheldon was tired, his ass hurt. He didn’t want to walk. Finally in exasperation, Milton placed both hands on Sheldon’s shoulders and pushed him forward.

“I’d like to get home before dawn, and the walk will help prevent you from stiffening up.”

Sheldon leaned back into Milton’s chest, digging in his heels. “I’m tired.”

Milton shifted a hand down below Sheldon’s waist and patted lightly. “If you make me have to carry you, I’ll make this a lot sorer. So march, boy.”

“Yes, sir.” Sheldon scrambled forward to get away from that threatening hand.

Milton’s car was a tiny, unimpressive hatchback, tidy but not new. From somewhere in back, Milton produced a pillow and tossed it on the passenger front seat. He eased Sheldon down on the seat and buckled him in, leaving the door open for ventilation. Milton stroked the hair damp with sweat from the spanking and the ensuing walk. “Easy, boy, I’ll be right back.” A quick kiss and he was gone into the night.

Sheldon let his head rest against the cheap vinyl seat back. Through the windshield he could see a sprinkling of stars. The three bright ones were Orion’s belt, and somehow they pointed to the North Star, but he couldn’t remember the details. The North Star the guide for explorers, the beacon for runaway slaves. Sheldon’s musings were interrupted by a light, gliding kiss and the thump of the door closing. He closed his eyes as the car started in motion.

The car had stopped in front of a large house with its porch lights shining brightly. The porch was a large, curved affair, covering the entire front of the house. Between each pillar, massive hanging baskets were bursting with flowers. Sheldon struggled with his seatbelt in the dim light of an unfamiliar car. Milton stooped over him and unbuckled it. Sheldon remained in his seat, feeling a strange languidness overtake him. Milton wrapped his arms around Sheldon and swung him up into his arms.

“Wrap your arms around my neck and hold on with your knees. We’ve got to climb some stairs, and I don’t want you falling.” Milton maneuvered through the darkened house with easy familiarity and deposited Sheldon on a large bed covered with a crisp white summer throw. Sheldon closed his eyes and hugged his knees to his chest. Behind him, Sheldon could hear Milton rummaging in the drawers and a T-shirt and a pair of boxers landed on the bed.

“Change. I’ll see if I can dig you up some toilet articles.”

 

*****

“I think you can imagine the rest of the evening,” Sheldon said to Luke. “But suffice it to say your little cheating episode was nothing.” He bent back to his lines and scratched a few words on the paper before closing his eyes with a slight smile playing on his lips as he remembered the incident.

 

***** 

Sheldon started to roll on to his hip to change his clothes. He pulled one tennis shoe off and started on his left foot when his laces snarled. In frustration and exhaustion, he fell back on the bed and covered his head with a pillow. He could taste the salt of tears in his mouth again.

“You didn’t get very far, did you?”

Sheldon peeked out from beneath the pillow. Milton’s voice hadn’t sounded angry, and he was smiling at him. He’d changed into some candy striped pajamas that made him look like he was modeling the latest fashion in prison wear. 

“All right, my little leprechaun, since I don’t want to get kicked in the middle of the night by your shoes, I’ll get you changed.” Milton sat on the edge of the bed, pulled Sheldon into his lap as if he were a toddler, and bent down to remove his remaining shoe. “You got this in a prize winning knot. It helps to untie it before you try to pull it off.” Milton worked the knot out with his agile, long fingers and slid Sheldon’s shoes and sock off. “Lift your arms. Let me get your shirt.” Sheldon raised his arms as compliant as a rag doll. “Stand up, and I’ll get your shorts.”

Sheldon stood. This was the second time today that he’d bared his ass to this man. Milton slid Sheldon’s shorts and boxers down, letting his hand rest on Sheldon’s inflamed butt as he pulled up the oversized boxers. Sheldon reached to place his hand on Milton’s crotch as their bodies rubbed together.

“Not tonight.” Milton plucked away the errant hand. “You’ve had enough tonight, and it defeats the purpose of the aversive.” He shepherded Sheldon into the bathroom and coaxed him into brushing his teeth and washing his face before he herded him back to bed.

Sheldon licked his lips as he watched Milton slip under the coverlet. Even the loose fitting pajamas couldn’t hide his raw sex appeal. Milton reached over and slung Sheldon onto his chest, kissing his forehead. “Sleep. I’ve got you.”

Sheldon woke as the sun was just starting to peek through the muslin curtains. He was still draped over Milton’s chest; a warm arm slung possessively over his back. The only sound was Milton’s slight snoring. Sheldon wondered if it was the quiet that had awakened him. The apartment he shared with two friends reverberated with noise from the passing trains. Used to sleeping with the constant rumbling and clank of bells, the quiet was disconcerting, tomblike. 

Slowly Sheldon slid out from Milton’s arm and tiptoed to the bathroom. He ran his hand across his rump; it was still hot, not truly painful, but not normal either. He wouldn’t want to throw himself down on a hard chair today. He pulled down his boxers and twisted to see his butt in the mirror, pink but no bruising. Finishing in the toilet, Sheldon returned to the bedroom. Last night’s clothes had vanished, probably policed into a hamper by a super efficient top. Sheldon stood uncertain for a moment. Wandering around in this strange house in a T-shirt and boxers that threatened to slide down his hips at any moment didn’t sound like a good prospect, and he wasn’t sleepy.

Milton had shifted since Sheldon had crawled out of bed and now lay sprawled across the coverlet. His pajamas had slid down his hips, showing an enticing peek at what lay underneath. Milton had said no sex last night, but it was now morning, and there had been no new prohibition. 

Sheldon dropped on the bed and touched the treasure still hidden under the pajamas. When Milton continued to snore, he grew braver, untied the drawstring, and pushed the pajamas down further. Sheldon’s hand touched the large balls and slid down the limp cock almost reverently. He watched fascinated as the cock sprang to life under his stroking while the man still slept.

Suddenly a hand grabbed the back of his neck and tugged him forward. “Boy, you better finish what you just started if you know what’s good for you,” Milton growled. A hand landed on Sheldon’s butt, not hard enough to be a swat, but too hard to be a pat.

Now that Milton was awake, it took only a few more strokes to bring him to completion. Milton groaned and grabbed Sheldon’s T-shirt and pulled him down on Milton’s chest, trapping Sheldon’s hard cock between them.

“Does this mean I get to keep you?”

“Oh, yeah” Sheldon grinned, trying to reach his blood filled appendage to relieve the pressure.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Milton slapped Sheldon’s hand and with a quick heave flipped Sheldon on his back, pinning his boy’s hands above his head.

Sheldon yelped as his tender butt bounced on the mattress.

“Serves you right, starting this after punishment. Keep your hands up there and let me play,” Milton growled.

Sheldon shivered as Milton licked down his chest. Milton nipped at his captured boy’s nipples, causing Sheldon to arch against him, moaning incoherently. In one swift move, Milton dropped to Sheldon’s groin and engulfed his new lover in his mouth. Sheldon came almost immediately, spraying cum deep into Milton’s throat. Milton swallowed and traced his fingers up his lover’s spent body, finally stopping at his mouth, where he slowly traced Sheldon’s lips.

“Was that good for you?” Milton asked, his eyes laughing.

“Oh, God, where’d you learn to do that?”

Milton smiled and kissed Sheldon on the lips. Sheldon could taste himself as he relaxed into the kiss, ceding full control to Milton. One final kiss and Milton grabbed his now limp and compliant boy and hoisted him out of bed. “Shower. I’ll get the sheets. I want to introduce you to Tilden before he finds us here in bed.”

“Who’s Tilden?” Sheldon managed to enunciate; his brain still felt woozy as he tried to shift gears from great sex to mundane living.

“The guy whose paper you ripped off,” Milton said with a sly grin.

“Oh shit!”

“Don’t swear. Shower now. He’s an early riser.” 

 

****

 

“Sheldon what are you laughing at?”

“I was just thinking about the first time I met Tilden. It was his paper I plagiarized, and of course Milton recognized it in an instant.”

“Shit, that does sound worse than peeking at a few notes.”

“Oh, yeah, it was. I can remember siting in this very kitchen, clutching a cup of coffee, and Milton introducing me as his new lover who tried to turn in his best friend’s paper. I thought I’d die of embarrassment. Thank God, Tilden’s a sweetheart. He smiled a wicked grin, wrapped me up in a hug, and gave my very sore butt a good pat. I about jumped out of my skin. At the time, I didn’t know Tilden was a top, and I wasn’t about to let him know that Milton had spanked the daylights out of me the day before.”

“That sounds awful,” Luke said.

“It got worse from there. Even though I’d already graduated, Milton made me study all the subjects I’d cheated on. I think I wrote ten papers for the one that I’d tried to pass off as mine. Plus Milton got a friend to tutor me in math, and Tilden tutored me in Russian since I’d faked my way through Spanish. Spanish would’ve been a hell of a lot easier. It was when Tilden was teaching me that I found out he was a top. Milton was out of town, and I went on strike about doing the Russian and gave Tilden an absolute earful. I think it was about as close as Tilden’s ever come to spanking me. I got swatted into the corner, and my mouth washed out with soap. Avoid that all cost. It’s flat cold gross. At least Milton considered us all square, and he didn’t spank me when he got back.”

“I’m sure Milton’s going to make me continue to go to class and do all the work for history, even though I’ve flunked the class.”

“That would be his modus operandi,” Sheldon said with a laugh. 

“I know; I feel so bad that I did it to him.”

“Oh stop with the guilt trip.” Sheldon threw a ball of wadded up paper at Luke. “At least you didn’t drive drunk, or send one of them to the hospital with a head wound.”

“You did that?” Luke asked, his voice rising in wonder.

“Mace caused the head wound by pitching a plate across the kitchen, and before you look too shocked he wasn’t trying to hit anyone. I did the drunk driving. As one brat to another, don’t do it. I get in trouble a lot but not like that, and I’m still here.” Sheldon’s expression became serious. “That was the only time I thought Milton might kick me out.” Sheldon bent back to his lines as if he were embarrassed by the memory. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have brought it up. I don’t think I can talk about it.”

“It’s OK. You don’t know me well, and I don’t want to pry into your private affairs. Would you like some more cocoa?”

“Luke, you’re sweet, but I think I better get on these lines. Do you have yours done?”

“Almost.”

“That sounds like one of my answers. The tops insist on yes or no. Almost, maybe, perhaps, sort of won’t cut it with them.”

They had just settled back to their lines when Mike and Tilden returned, carrying two large shopping bags stuffed with food. “Did you get your lines done?” Tilden asked, sweeping the empty mugs off the table with one hand. “Or did you spend the whole time drinking cocoa, chatting, and dressing up?” Tilden asked, looking at Sheldon’s breeches and boots with an amused expression on his face. 

“ _Napisal,_ ” Luke replied and triumphantly handed Tilden his lines.

“ _Khorosho._ ” Tilden ruffled Luke’s hair. “You used the perfective verb. Excellent. See how handy it is when the verbs have a built in way to stress completion.”

Luke wasn’t sure if it was handy or merely confusing but he nodded anyway. He was enjoying the praise, and he didn’t want to break the mood.

“Sheldon, go into the library and finish up,” Tilden said. “I’ll call you when we have supper laid out. Milton’s staying late to grade exams, and Trent and Mace have a book signing.”

Dinner passed pleasantly. Sheldon chatted about the latest gossip at the station, and Tilden tried to engage both his brats on the Secretary of State’s visit to the Republic of Texas. Luke didn’t follow politics, and he ate quietly while Sheldon and Tilden argued the merits of constructive engagement to decrease persecution of non-Christians. After dinner, Sheldon idled in front of the television, and Tilden hauled out the Russian Scrabble game. Luke was bad at Scrabble in English, and in Russian he was hopeless. He couldn’t even make the first word without Tilden looking at his rack and helping him. Luke realized that Tilden in a round about way was trying to help them prepare for their Russian exam, but he was in no mood with a rack full of hard signs and combinations of letters forbidden to go together by Russian’s elaborate spelling rules. After he snapped at Tilden for the third time, Tilden tipped Luke’s letters back into the box and sent him off to bed.

Luke lay on the bed fully clothed and flipped through his Russian textbook. He wasn’t going to go meekly off to bed at eight like some six-year-old. 

“I thought Tilden sent you to bed?”

Luke looked over his shoulder to see Milton standing in the doorway, his hip propped against the door frame and his arms crossed. Luke already recognized the stance as a top on the attack. “I’m in bed.”

“In bed means in your pajamas under the covers with the lights out, not sprawled sideways across the bed muttering to your Russian textbook. Go on now; get changed.” 

Luke tossed the book to the floor and stomped off to the bathroom. He pulled on his pajamas, letting his clothes lay where he dropped them. Running his toothbrush under the tap, he halfheartedly scraped it against a couple teeth, splashed some water on his face, and called himself ready for bed. 

Milton had turned down the covers and patted the bed when Luke emerged from the bathroom. “Hop in.”

Luke grimaced but obeyed.

Milton pushed Luke’s hair back and kissed his forehead. “Are you worried about your Russian test tomorrow?”

“I thought you guys wanted me asleep, and now you want to chat.”

“Watch yourself,” Milton said with a hint of warning. “I’ve heard your Russian; it’s excellent for a first year student.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

Milton sighed and stood up. Luke watched in the shadows of the single lamp as Milton rummaged through the odds and ends stored in the bottom of the wooden chest at the foot of the bed. He pulled out a portable tape recorder, and a stack of books and cassette tapes rubber banded together. “This is the text Tilden and I used when we took Russian back in the Dark Ages.” Milton pawed through the tapes until he found the right one and shoved it into the recorder. “Here read and listen to this.”

Luke listened to the fuzzy, tinny sound coming from the tiny speakers. It was an ordinary dialogue about going to the movies: everything from choosing the film to buying the tickets. Milton rewound the tape several times until he seemed satisfied and then removed the tape and inserted a blank tape.

“Read the dialogue out loud.”

Mystified, Luke followed Milton’s orders.

“Again, as if you’re talking to someone, not reading a ridiculous textbook dialogue.”

Luke repeated the process several times until some criteria known only to Milton was met. Milton changed back to the original tape and instructed Luke to listen. He then repeated the process with Luke’s tape.

“They sound darn close, don’t they?” Milton asked.

“I guess.” Luke shrugged.

“You guess! Do you have any idea what kind of gift that is to mimic the sounds of a foreign language that closely? Here listen to me read it. I’ve had graduate level Russian, and I make Tilden wince every time I open my mouth. He tries to hide it, but I can see the twitch in his shoulders and hear him suck in his breath.”

“You really think I’m good at this?” Luke wanted to sound nonchalant, but he couldn’t hide the yearning in his voice.

“Silly boy,” Milton admonished in a light tone. “Have we ever lied to you?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s right.” Milton kissed Luke’s cheek. “Get some sleep.” Milton pulled the chain of the small table lamp, shrouding the room in darkness as he faded back into the hall.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys settle into their new life.

**Meet Your Mate**

**Chapter 15**

 

Luke read the first series of questions. Tilden called them the warm up questions, and it was obvious why. They were simple, easy fill in the blanks and one word translations. Luke filled in the blanks and flipped to the next page. The English to Russian translations started easy. Luke filled half a page before he took a break. He stretched, rotating his neck in big circles.

Tilden had left nothing to chance this morning. He’d made all the students sit every other desk, and both Luke’s and Mike’s backpacks were left at home. Luke knew that Tilden was removing the temptation, but Luke smiled at Tilden’s brave efforts to come up with an excuse for both his brats to arrive sans backpacks. Tilden had pointed out this morning that they only needed a few pencil and that he was more than capable of carrying enough pencils for everyone in the class. 

Luke felt a hand on his shoulder. Tilden raised an eyebrow and smiled. Luke tapped the word he was stuck on—female crane operator. Who in the right mind talked about female crane operators? Tilden shrugged, smiled, and mouthed guess. Luke nodded. It was worth a try. Luke finished the rest of the exam well before the two hours allotted. He rechecked his exam. Luke still couldn’t think of the word for female crane operator, so he substituted female construction worker. Close enough, he decided. With one final flick through his exam, Luke handed it to Tilden.

“Do you want me to correct it now?”

Luke nodded.

“Don’t look so worried,” Tilden whispered. “I was reading it over your shoulder, and everything looked good.” Tilden scanned through the first page; he circled one verb which didn’t match the subject and added a soft sign, but otherwise made no corrections. He flipped to the next page and continued reading. He made a few corrections, but the paper was not the usual sea of red ink that Luke associated with exams. Tilden smiled when he got to the sentence with the female crane operator working in Siberia. “Good try, but on a test I can’t give you credit for construction worker when I wanted crane operator. Not that it matters. Unless you left the third page blank, you’re going to get an A.”

Luke looked up at Tilden unsure what to say. He couldn’t remember getting an A since kindergarten. “Are you kidding?”

“Luka, do I kid about things like this?”

“No.”

Tilden corrected the final page, adding a word in a few places and changing a case ending here and there. “This should end up somewhere between a ninety-four and a ninety-eight. I won’t know for sure until I grade all of them. _Maladets._ ” Tilden stood up and reached for Luke’s hand and shook it. “Congratulations. I might get a Russian major out of this class yet.”

Luke smiled a broad grin, embarrassed and happy at the same time. “It was easy.”

“Would you like me to make it harder next time?” Tilden teased.

Luke shook his head vigorously.

“I thought not. It’s more fun when you’re not hopelessly behind.” Tilden reached into his bag and handed Luke a book, a pad of paper, and a box of colored pencils. “I brought you something to read or supplies if you want to draw. I knew you’d be done early.”

“It’s in Russian,” Luke said looking at the book.

“Of course. What do you expect?”

Luke returned to his seat and flipped through the book. A picture of a girl leading an elephant caught his eye. With the extensive glossary, Luke could read the story and enjoyed it. As he read, he sketched an elephant with a small girl in a pink tutu sitting astride. 

Gradually the class handed in all their papers, the top students shortly after Luke; the poor students tossed them on the desk in disgust as the end of the two hour period approached. Luke watched, remembering the feeling of anger and shame he’d felt after his first Russian exam. Not wanting to own up to his responsibilities, he’d blamed Tilden for the disaster. Luke sketched a panel of cartoons. In the first a small boy was taking an exam; a strict teacher with a ruler stood over him. The second panel showed an irate father screaming at the teacher and the boy. A paper with a bright red F lay tossed on the desk. In the third panel, the teacher was sitting at the kitchen table, one arm around the boy’s shoulder, bent over his work, and in the final scene the boy and teacher were smiling while the father stood apart, his expression grim. The boy was holding a bouquet of brilliantly colored flowers, and the teacher was waving an exam paper with a bright red A.

Luke hadn’t noticed that the classroom was now empty. Tilden wrapped his arms around Luke, resting his head on his partner’s shoulders. “Is that your father with the red face?”

Luke tore the drawing from the notebook and crumpled in his hand, embarrassed.

“Luka, why did you destroy it?”

“It was private,” Luke snarled.

“Watch your tone with me, young man.” Tilden rubbed the back of Luke’s neck, taking some of the sting out of the reprimand. “After you tossed Milton and me in that mess yesterday, your academics are very much my business.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry sir.”

“Luka, _druzhok_ , I’m very proud of your work today. It wasn’t very long ago that I was having a little chat with you about scoring in the thirties; today you scored well into the nineties. You should be proud.” Tilden ruffled Luke’s hair and pulled him up out of his chair. “Are you OK now?” Tilden whispered in Luke’s ear. “You need to take the oral part of the exam.”

“Aren’t you giving it?”

“No, I can’t since you two are my partners. Nina Petrovna will give it. I can sit in and guide the dialogue, but I can’t mark it. Misha.” Tilden raised his voice to attract the attention of their other partner who was pretending to be fascinated by the light drizzle on the quad. “Come on, you two. Let’s get this done. This should be easy for both of you, and then you can play the rest of the day.”

“Yeah, stuck with Milton all day,” Mike said in a sour tone.

“Misha, I know it’s hard. If you need more practice, I can make it an extra week,” Tilden said, pulling him close and kissing his forehead.

“That won’t be necessary. It’s just Milton’s so ...” Mike trailed off and rubbed his hands on his jeans.

“Do you find Milton oppressive?” Tilden said with an easy grin.

“He always wants me to sit on the floor right under foot. I’m not a slave boy.”

“You sit on the floor with me. Do you find that—” Tilden paused and searched for the word. “Degrading?”

“No, but half the time you sprawl on the floor with me, or you touch me, tousle my hair.” Mike blushed and looked at the ground. “I think he doesn’t much like me.”

“Misha.” Tilden wrapped Mike into a hug. “You need to talk to him. Milton’s trying not to overwhelm you.”

“The iceman,” Mike hissed between his teeth. “Can’t I stay with Trent? He’s a lot more fun.”

“No, he went to an auction today. You’ll live. No more dilly dallying, you two. Let’s get your oral exam over with then you have the rest of the day free, even if it is with the iceman.” Tilden grinned and ruffled both his boys’ hair.

 

 

Nina Petrovna was a small woman with a bright smile and apple cheeks. She was dressed in a shirt dress with heavy stockings and fur lined boots. Her carrot orange hair, definitely a home dye job, was covered by a flowered scarf.

“ _Rebyata, vkhodite.”_ She greeted them effusively. 

Tilden bent down and kissed her on both cheeks, and they started a rapid fire conversation in Russian of which Luke could only catch a few words. Tilden slowed the cadence of his speech, and Luke heard him introduce the two of them. Nina Petrovna then started talking to Luke and Mike, asking simple questions until they relaxed. She pointed to a bowl filled with strips of paper and had each boy pick three questions.

Luke unfolded the first strip. It asked what he did in his spare time. He tried to convince them that he had no spare time, but Nina Petrovna and Tilden prodded until he said he listened to music and watched television. Mike answered the next question about his usual routine in the morning. He rattled off waking up at seven am, taking a shower, and eating breakfast. The final question required both Luke and Mike to participate in an unrehearsed dialogue with Tilden acting the role of a confused tourist wanting to purchase tickets for the theater and to buy newspapers and stamps from the kiosk. With Tilden guiding the conversation, it was easy and almost fun; Luke soon forgot about Nina Petrona sitting and taking notes. The dialogue was getting increasingly raucous with Luke finally telling Tilden that the only theater seats available were high in the balcony for _The Seagull,_ but that many tickets were available for the famous Moscow circus and that it would be a crime to come to Russia without seeing the circus. Tilden played his role to the hilt and asked endless questions about the circus. Finally he was satisfied and purchased two tickets. Luke pantomimed giving him the tickets, hamming up the process and unsuccessfully stifling giggles.

Tilden then turned to Mike and asked him for a string of newspapers. Mike rolled his eyes and responded that he was out of everything except _Chess in Russia_ and _Komsomolskaya Pravda._ Tilden made a face and pointed to a stack of magazines on his desk. 

“Aren’t those _Literaturnaya Gazeta_ and _Argumenti i Fakti_.”

“No, they are _Chess in Russia,”_ Mike insisted.

“Look there’s _Leningradskaya Pravda_ ,” Tilden said, waving a yellowed copy of that very paper.

“But it’s not today’s,” Mike shot back.

Nina Petrovna stopped the conversation before they could argue any further. “Enough. You both get fives,” she said in Russian before switching to English. “That was excellent for first year students. Misha, your work was easily A work, but, Luka, your work was exceptional. I assume you will be majoring in Russian.”

Luke blushed to the roots of his hair and managed to mumble, “Thank you,” before stumbling through an explanation that he was undecided about his major.

Mike elbowed Luke in the ribs. “I told you so.”

Tilden stepped between his two young men before it disintegrated into a friendly shoving match. “Thank you, Nina Petrovna. I’m very appreciative of your help today.”

“My pleasure, Tikhon Ivanovich.”

****

 

Mike dragged behind Tilden as they approached the history building. It was still before noon; an entire afternoon by himself with Milton hung before him. It wouldn’t actually be entirely by himself, Luke would be there, but still Milton always managed to glare at him as if he were no more worthy than a bug under glass. Luke seemed to get along with their frigid history professor, even after yesterday’s debacle. Mike had seen Luke lean against Milton, almost asking him to touch him. Mike stayed as far from Milton’s reach as possible, expecting at any moment to be grabbed and turned over the man’s knee. If he’d cheated yesterday, Milton probably would have spanked him in front of the whole class.

Milton was in his office bent over some poor student’s bluebook, his precise script filling the margins. As always he was dressed as if the staid nineteen fifties were only yesterday; he wore a tweed blazer with a conservative tie. His brown dress shoes shined without a speck of mud. He must never step off the path or drive one mile above the speed limit, or swear at the doddering fool in the checkout lane who counts every penny to make ninety-seven cents rather that handing the clerk a dollar, Mike thought, girding himself for an afternoon of boredom. 

“Hi, boys, did everything go well this morning?” Milton asked.

Luke smiled and nodded. “A lot better than yesterday.” Luke’s cheeks turned a slight pink as he mentioned yesterday’s mess.

“And you, Mike?” Milton prodded.

Mike kept his eyes down. He didn’t want to talk to Milton. Couldn’t that man see that he wanted to be left alone?

“Mike, it’s polite to answer a question,” Tilden said in his ear.

“Fine,” Mike snapped. “Everything went fine.”

Milton’s eyebrows rose at the tone, and Mike saw him shoot a glance at Tilden as if to ask, _What’s up with your problem child?_ Mike couldn’t quite read Tilden’s expression; but if he had to guess, it said, _Be patient. I’ll tell you later._

“Fuck this!” Mike let fly. “Why don’t you just say what you want to instead of making googly eyes at each other? And yeah, I’m in a shitty mood.”

Mike didn’t get any further before Tilden peppered the back of his jeans with several very hard swats and drove him into the corner. Mike now stood his nose inches from the corner, his hands interlaced on the top of his head. This day was getting better by the second.

Mike felt a hand on his shoulder and he was spun around inches from Milton’s fiery, near black eyes. “Mike, I want you to think carefully before you make a choice. You’re uncomfortable with me, resentful of me, dislike me. While I can guess at the reasons, I’ll leave that for you to tell me when you’re ready. But no matter what your feelings, I expect to be treated like a civilized human being. If I hear another outburst like that from you directed at me, I will spank you. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Mike ground out between closed lips. He would say the words because it was the only response possible with Milton holding both Mike’s shoulders and freezing him in a penetrating glare.

To Mike’s surprise, Milton stepped forward, wrapped him in his arms, and kissed his forehead. He’s been expecting a swat and a blistering lecture about attitude.

“You think you hate me right now. Hopefully that will pass because it’s damn hard to share a house with someone you hate, and Tilden loves you, and since we own the house together, you’re stuck with me. So your life will be a lot more pleasant if you would find a way to tolerate me. Now for your choice: you can come play tennis with me, Luke, and a colleague, or I expect Tilden will let you sit with him while he administers an exam to his second year class.”

Mike glanced at Tilden, who nodded. Mike’s shoulders slumped; Milton had out maneuvered him. Play with Milton or die of boredom with Tilden. “Tennis.”

At least Milton didn’t gloat over his victory. He nodded and kissed Mike again on the forehead before stepping behind his desk and tossing a gym bag to both boys. This had been planned, Mike thought as he caught the tossed mini duffle. Milton could probably make Eisenhower's invasion of Normandy seem spontaneous and haphazard. Mike was still standing, staring at Milton and trying to come up with a smart retort to save face when a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Milton called.

A woman entered, dressed in a flowing skirt and a peasant blouse. Mike didn’t know her by sight, but he guessed she must be a professor since she looked older than an undergraduate, and Banner didn’t have a graduate school. She hesitated at the door when she saw the crowd in the office.

“I’m sorry. Did I mistake the time?” she said, starting to back out the door.

“Amanda, wait. You’ve met Tilden Blake before, our Russian and Slavic studies professor, and these are two of our students: Mike and Luke. I thought we could play doubles today. Boys, this is Professor Levin. She’s a new lecturer in the history department this year.”

Amanda smiled and made some murmurs of agreement. She seemed flustered and fidgeted with the books, pulling a volume out here and there to glance at the title before replacing it on the shelf. Poor woman, Mike thought, she was as intimidated by Milton as he was, and as lecturer she hardly had more stature than an indentured servant. Luke had melted behind Tilden when the introductions were made, Mike noted with some amusement. Luke seemed to meet all straight woman younger than his mother with perplexity and anxiety as if he were a man plucked from prehistoric North America suddenly finding himself in New York traffic. Mike stepped forward, shook her hand, and gave her his best example of a charming smile. He wanted Milton to see his fine manners to underline that it was Milton who deserved Mike’s contempt and that he wasn’t rude to everybody, but Milton ignored him as he herded them toward the recreational building.

Mike liked tennis. He didn’t know how Milton knew this—maybe it was the rackets stored under the bed—but that didn’t matter, it was better than sitting at Tilden’s feet while he gave a test. Milton had paired Mike with Professor Levin, or Amanda as she quickly insisted, and he’d taken Luke. As they played, Amanda overwhelmed the opposition with her powerful serve.

“I played in college,” she said apologetically. “It’s kind of nice to beat Professor Brown at something,” she murmured to Mike as Luke bounced the ball preparing to serve on the far side of the net.

“You don’t have to say any more. I know what you mean,” Mike said.

Amanda easily returned the serve into the far corner, sending Milton scrambling to retrieve it. “How come you’re playing with him? He doesn’t seem the type to fraternize with students.”

Mike shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve heard he occasionally invites senior history majors and his advisees over to his house for a soiree. Of course I don’t know how many get up the courage to show up.” Mike saw Amanda watching as Milton playfully flicked the towel at Luke when they switched service. “It’s not what you think. We know him out of school,” Mike said hastily, concerned that she might have leapt to an entirely misinformed conclusion.

“Is Luke related to him, or something?”

Or something, Mike thought. “We room with him.”

“He runs a boarding house?”

“No,” Mike said, laughing, imaging students quaking in terror when they discovered the name of their landlord at the beginning of the semester.

“What’s so funny?” Milton called from the other side of the net.

“She thought you were my landlord.”

Milton snorted. “I take it you’ve been circling around the truth. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, and it’s not a secret.”

Amanda was watching the exchange wide-eyed. Mike could almost see her processing the possibilities behind her lively, hazel eyes: kept boy, boyfriend, relative, yet to be defined.

“Luke and Mike are my best friend’s partners. My apologies for not explaining our relationship. I can imagine what you were thinking,” Milton said with a wry grin. “Tilden and I share a house together, so we are familiar with each other. You know, who leaves the wet towel on the floor and boxers hanging on the doorknob.”

Mike doubled over in paroxysms of laughter. Amanda looked shocked for a moment and then broke into a wide grin. With her hair pulled back into a pony tail, a bright smile, and the smattering of freckles across her cheeks, she looked like a teenage gymnast.

“I take it this is your way of showing me that reality is not as frightening as the myth surrounding you,” she said, regaining her composure.

“That’s right, having the student body in awe of me has its uses, but it can get out of hand.”

“I’ll make sure I get out a campus wide announcement that you’re flesh and blood and don’t eat students for breakfast.” 

“I don’t know. I think it’s worthwhile for the students to think that I snack on succulent freshmen. Do you want to play another set?”

“Not today, I think you’ve done me in both mentally and physically.” Amanda rolled her eyes and gave a small self-appraising grin. “I enjoyed the match.”

“My pleasure.”

Mike watched as Milton stepped back into his formal personality. Milton reached across the net and shook Amanda’s hand with the grace of a courtier, congratulating her on a well played game. Amanda nodded, retreating behind the offered formality, but still her posture remained less wary and rigid than prior to the game. Amanda was again thanking Milton for a well played game and making excuses about a prior engagement to avoid a proffered invitation to lunch. Milton diplomatically withdrew the offer but won a concession of a promised lunch next week.

“Come on we’ve got to skedaddle, or they won’t be serving lunch,” Milton said.

“Skedaddle?” Mike said, running his tongue over the word. “It sounds like a turn of the century children’s book.”

“It’s one of my grandfather’s favorite words,” Milton said, pushing Mike and Luke in front of him.

 

 

Mike was sliding a plate of fries onto his tray when a pack of boys jostled him from behind.

“Hey, Mike, I thought you’d fallen off the earth. Where have you been?” a curly haired kid in a Banner sweatshirt asked. That was Drake. They’d lived on the same floor in the dorm and had talked about pledging the same fraternity. Drake had been in beginning Russian until he dropped out after the first exam.

“Studying, I stayed in Russian.”

“Man, you must be a glutton for punishment; that Professor Blake is a real ass. He gave me a lecture on getting my priorities straight before he would sign the drop slip. I’m a freshman; my priorities are drinking and partying, not slaving over Russian.”

“I hear you,” Mike said with a shrug. “But he’s not too bad when you get to know him. He’s helped me a lot this semester.”

“Yeah, kept you prisoner in the library it sounds like,” one of the other guys in the group sneered. “You better kiss a place in the house next year good-bye.”

Mike didn’t say anything. They would know soon enough when the first episode of _Meet Your Mate_ aired. Mike pushed his tray down to the cashier. He hadn’t realized how irritating these guys could be. A plump lady in a white hairnet rang up the total. Mike felt in his pockets for his student ID. Damn, it was in his backpack at home. “Guys, could I put this on one of your cards? I left mine in my room.”

“No way,” Drake said and the rest of the guys chorused their agreement.

“Fine. I won’t eat,” Mike muttered, abandoning his food at the cashier’s.

Milton must’ve seen the hubbub because Mike felt a hand on his shoulder and saw a card flash through the reader. “I’ll get it, since you’re having a lunch meeting with me.”

Mike could hear a few snickers about being rescued by the prof and teacher’s pet as he followed Milton to the table. “Thanks for the little white lie,” Mike murmured when they were out of earshot.

“You are eating with me,” Milton said with a quick smile. “Have you lost your ID, or did you just forget it?”

“I think it’s in my book bag.”

“You think,” Milton said with a raised eyebrow. “When’s the last time you had it?”

“Last week sometime.” They’d reached the table where Luke was waiting. Miraculously, like the parting of the Red Sea, if a professor ate in the dining room the surrounding chairs were empty, even if students were standing, balancing trays on waste cans.

“Luke, have you seen Mike’s ID?” Milton asked.

“I think it might be on the dresser. I put him on my card last Friday because he forgot his.”

Milton ran his fingers through his hair. The gesture seemed so exaggerated that Mike wondered if Milton was subtly teasing them. “You two are impossible! I’m glad you’re Tilden’s problem and not mine.” 

Both Mike and Luke looked up sharply, concerned that Milton was annoyed. They saw a wide grin flash across the professor’s face before his stern mask fell back into place. Mike shoved a ketchup encrusted French fry in his mouth to hide his grin. He didn’t want Milton to know he’d won that easily, but he couldn’t help both admiring and enjoying being played by an expert. They were going to own him body, mind, and soul, and at least at this moment it didn’t look that bad. He had two beautiful men in his bed, and the family he’d never had at every turn. It might be complicated, but, God, it looked good right now. Hang on and enjoy the ride, he told himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of the first book in the Reality Check Universe.


End file.
